I'm Getting a Cryptid!

Podcasts are my new thing to listen to during my hour long commute every day.

I’ve been listening to rubbish like “Things The Government Doesn’t Want You to Know” and “Reptilians Who Live Among Us” and “Aliens and Cryptids: the Complete Guide”.
What? You think I’m an idiot? They’re very entertaining and quite educational, I'll have you know.

In fact, I’m learning things… like... what a cryptid is and how to hunt them down and capture them alive.

(Apparently they aren’t crossword puzzles like I thought.)

I’m learning that some people in the world genuinely believe there are evil gnomes living in their wardrobes and linen closets. These gnomes come out when people are asleep and execute unmentionable acts upon them, so they say.

I’m learning about will o the wisps, vampires and how Queen Elizabeth 2 is really a Lizard Person in disguise.

I’m learning there are a lot of very silly people in the world making podcasts.

The Internet has a lot to answer for, really.

Next thing you know, ridiculous, non-writer-like women will start publishing blogs about chickens and Chihuahuas and random Easter Bunny deaths in their own shower recess… 

Fact: the Easter Bunny is a cryptid.

…which leads me to my wonderful, delightfully exhilarating news… 

I happen to have been hunting a particular cryptid this past week AND... I FOUND ONE!

I’m adopting a baby hare.

She should be arriving tomorrow.

Here’s a picture her carer sent. 

I’m going to be a mother again, sob.

Stay tuned!

The Easter Bunny is Dead

Fiver

I’m feeling sad because my baby hare just died.

We only found her half an hour ago but in that time I’d already named the precious poppet and decided on where she would sleep at night.

I’d envisioned her loping around after me whilst I cooked in the kitchen; my precious bunny sitting on my lap on the couch each evening, and the cute, baby hare, frolicking around with my Chihuahua and Fox Terrier while I was at work.

I planned to teach her circus tricks. 

I'd always wanted a bunny.

A friend advised me to take her up to the vet because she seemed to be injured. We’d come upon her in the middle of the road, huddled in a ball. There was no blood or obvious injury but her front paw was limp.

As we went into the bathroom to collect her for the vet trip, she suddenly arched her back and then died.

All my dreams of being a hare-mother disintegrated in an instant.

Poor, little Fiver.

Now there is a deceased hare in a box in my shower recess and I have no idea of where we can put the body.

I can’t put it in the freezer and the bin people don’t collect for another two (scorchingly, hot) days.

If we bury her the dogs will dig her up.

It will have to be the bin. Rigor Mortis has already set in.

Who will be bringing Easter eggs to the little children?

Nobody will.

The Easter Bunny is dead.

Why Parent Information Nights can be Hard...

Parent Information Night interfered with my customary and coveted *‘Chicken Time’ last week, as I found myself mandated to stay at work until about 8 pm on Tuesday evening.

I was a bit cheesed off. I really love Chicken Time. It’s my favourite part of the day.

*Chicken time is an early evening, leisure time activity where I sit with Scotto and the chickens in the backyard and drink wine. It really has nothing to do with the chickens; they just happen to be there but it sounds more civilised than calling it ‘wine time’.

It was far too late to drive home that night and not desiring to inflict my thundering snores on my buddy teacher, Catherine Mary, so early in the school year, I decided to treat myself and stay the night in a motel room.

It was an exhilarating prospect.

1. No stinky, twitchy dogs in the bed waking me in the morning with their cold nose pressed into the nearest available of my orifices.

2. No one incessantly talking about computers after I arrive home from work, when all I deeply desire is peace and quiet.

3. Clean, crisp sheets with no manky dog hairs clinging to the pillow slips and farty smells emanating from under the covers.

4. Free air conditioning which I could crank down to a below freezing temperature and then shiver myself to sleep under thick blankets.

5. Free control of the telly remote, with no bossy boots around, thus rendering me able to watch whatever took my fancy.

6. An entire bed to myself so I could sleep horizontally if I chose and kick to my heart's content.

The parent evening finally ended and two seconds after checking in to the motel, I unlocked the door, threw myself on the cool bed, and made extravagant snow angels all over the sheets (but with no snow).

I indulged in an extended, hot shower then flopped into the bed in my flannelette pajamas with a glass of cheeky red.

It was grand.

I sort of missed Scotto saying, “Aw, look at you Pinky, you’re all clean and paid for!” which is what he customarily says to me every night after my shower when I'm all pink and sweet-smelling, but I brushed off the sentimentality and began maniacally scrolling on the remote.

I wound up watching My Kitchen Rules because I knew that’s what Scotto would be most likely watching and we’d be needing to discuss it the following evening.

After that there was nothing on the telly so I decided to explore the room.

I stared at the picture of the waterfall for a while but it made me feel a bit lonely.

I remembered Scotto and I trekking up and down all the waterfalls in the Scenic Rim last year. We were such good hiking partners...

Then I examined the picture of the horses for a good five minutes.

I felt a sorrowful lump in my throat as I recalled Scotto and I going on a horse riding trail ride a couple of months ago.

I checked out the fridge which was a bit disappointing as it only contained a carton of fake milk.

Scotto never forgets to buy milk when we run low. He never buys fake milk either.

I counted the coat hangers in the cupboard.

We never have any spare hangers at home because Scotto never throws out shirts even if they are thread bare and eighty years old. I sort of missed those mangy old shirts right then.

I wondered how many computers he’d fixed today.

Then I checked out the biscuits in the coffee/tea thing. They were an odd variety which I’d never heard of.

Scotto always buys Kingstons for his late night snack. They’re his favourites. He always gives a few crumbs to the dogs who snuggle, bright-eyed beside me in bed, too.

Sighing wistfully, I stumbled into the bathroom to clean my teeth.

There were no beard bristles, no toothpaste spit stains hardened in the sink, no coils of Scotto's used dental floss. It was horrible.

Then I climbed into my cold, solitary bed containing no warm, breathing, furry bodies pressed against me, stared at the wall and wished for the morning to come very quickly.

I really missed Chicken Time.

A Series of Really Fudging Unfortunate Events: The Saga of Lemony Snickets

On the weekend, I drove my old car, Golden Boy, up to the IGA. 

I've been putting off selling him because I hate my new car so much.

My trustworthy, darling little Golden Boy.

My ‘never let me down a day in his life’, Golden Boy.

I was still mightily pissed off with my new car, Lemony Snickets and couldn’t bear the thought of driving the bitch of a thing any more than I had to.

However, when I attempted to start Golden Boy up for the drive home, an ominous silence shrouded the car. The engine refused to kick over.

Angst ridden, beyond frustration and with a great deal of vulgar language, I could only surmise that …

1. Golden Boy was displaying jealousy towards the new car and decided to play dead merely out of spite.

2. Golden Boy wanted me to relinquish my deep affection towards him, make a clean break and force me to start to like the new car so he could finally go into retirement.

3. Golden Boy is not actually a live creature and I should stop personifying my cars and he just had a flat battery.

After I called the RACQ it turned out his battery was well over three years old and it was an inevitable misfortune.

“Maybe I don’t hate Lemony Snickets all that much,” I commented to Scotto as I handed the RACQ man my credit card to pay for a new battery.

However, when I arrived at work on Thursday, my loathing of Lemony Snickets became exacerbated to an exponential magnitude of seething, nuclear reactor-like wrath.

“What happened to your front number plate?” asked my teaching colleague, Catherine Mary, in an innocent, throwaway query.

“Nothing,” I replied stupidly, staring at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well… it’s not there,” she stated, pushing back her glasses and gazing at me in a pitiful manner.

“Yes, it is,” I stammered uncertainly.

“Well, it doesn’t look as if it is to me,” Catherine Mary shrugged impatiently.

I instantly scurried out to where I could see my car.

No audaciously expensive, personalised number plate was to be seen.

I texted Scotto in a crazed flurry.

RING THE $&X#$ING DEALERSHIP.

THE $#%&*ING $%^&*ERS FAILED TO ATTACH MY FRONT NUMBER PLATE PROPERLY AND IT’S #$%^&ING GONE!
Scotto texted back within seconds.

YOU’RE $%^&ING JOKING!!!!

So yeah.



I still hate Lemony Snickets.

The Love Affair is Over

“What name do you think I should give my new car?” was my stupidly naïve and ignorant question at the end of my last post.

“I’m in love with my new car!” I joyously posted on Facebook.

Oh, how simpleminded and foolish I was back in those halcyon days.

Thank you all for your naming suggestions but I’ve finally thought of a new name for it.

“ Lemony Snickets”… with the emphasis on LEMON.

It’s a fudging, mother fudging lemon, actually.

No car has EVER raised my blood pressure as much as this… this… yellow, bile inducing rattlebox.

I can’t even swear enough to describe my disappointment in the heavyweight steering, the constant, relentless and mind numbing rattle from the cabin interior, the aggravating and unexpected (downright dangerous) lurching gear changes that this disgrace of an automobile has exhibited.

This car has brought me to a near stroke/aneurism.

Frankly, I hate its guts.

I really fudging hate it.

I know that some people live in poverty, some people suffer violent atrocities and some people are so poor they can’t afford food let alone a new car and that vehicular disappointment is a minor glitch in my otherwise pleasant life.

I know all this.

But I don’t care.

“You CAN sell it, you know,” chirruped Scotto one afternoon after I arrived home, stomping though the house, wild-eyed and loudly declaring I was going to name the car, “#unty Mc#unt Face’,” because I’d had enough.

Okay, okay… I realise I can take the shite, poor excuse for a car back because it’s under warranty and I can complain… AND I WILL.

But this car is BRAND FRICKIN NEW. Why should I have to inconvenience myself… a lot… by having to take a brand new VERY EXPENSIVE LUMP OF STEEL POOP back to the workshop two weeks after purchase?

No, no. no.

Frickin French, froggy, fudging lump of crap.

I’m going to crash it into oblivion so I never have to hear those ceaseless rattling noises in my ear EVER AGAIN.

I don’t know how I will write the jangling, creaking behemoth off without killing myself but I will figure out a way.

I could park it at the top of the mountain on the edge of a cliff and accidently leave it in neutral with the hand brake off…

Just a little push would do it.


Stay tuned. 

Three Excellent Things I Bought!

I’m back to work on Wednesday and there’s one particular thing I’m really dreading.

Six weeks of holiday has enabled my digestive system to develop into a lovely, rhythmic routine where at 8 o’clock sharp, every single day, I poop.

I will be arriving at work at exactly 8 am every day and this is not a happy prospect because we only have two toilets at work and people use them a lot and I don’t want anyone to know I’ve pooped the very second I’ve arrived at work.

On our travels to the shops today, I came across a product called, VIP Poo, which comes in all sorts of scents and you spray it in the toilet before you do your business and it magically masks all nasty smells by smothering the poo as soon as it hits the water.

Naturally, this mandates my wearing garments containing pockets to work at all times because God forbid someone should espy me entering the staff toilet clutching a bottle of VIP Poo in my trembling hands.

That would most probably give the game away.

In fact, I made Scotto pretend he was buying the VIP Poo for himself and that I had nothing to do with it, although I think the checkout guy suspected there was something afoot because of all the silly giggling when I took the photo.

It says on the bottle that it is highly dangerous to all aquatic animals.

More dangerous than poo? I highly doubt it.

Scotto and I had stopped at the shops to buy some pesticide because our front yard is infested with paper wasps.

One of them stung Scotto yesterday and I’ve been too terrified to go out and put rubbish in the wheelie bin in case a multitude of wasps swarm on me.

I suspect I’m allergic to them and I don’t want to die of anaphylactic shock, so I sent Scotto out (in his Hazmat suit) to annihilate the vicious creatures.

I sincerely believe that I am the wasp’s primary target because I noticed about twenty dead wasps splayed out on the passenger side window of Scotto’s car where they’d flown, kamikaze style, directly aiming at where I usually sit.

Another excellent thing I bought this week is my new car.

It's a Renault Clio RS which is a step up from the Suzuki Swift but I don’t pick it up until Tuesday.

I am trying to think of a name for it.

It’s a ranga, so I was thinking of calling it Ed Sheeran.

My son was quite disgusted that I’ve purchased a French car. Don’t ask me what he has against the French.

I reminded him that his eighth, great grandfather was a Monsieur De Venoix and that I am 19% French (according to my DNA) so of course I should have a French car and that he should mind his own Francophobic beeswax.

Mon Dieu, my children are overly bossy sometimes.

My new car has a reverse camera, automatic windshield wipers and lights, a front seat that heats up, a turbo thingy (not sure what that means), and three DIFFERENT modes of drive.

You can drive in ‘Normal’ mode, ‘Sports’ mode and ‘Outrrrrrraaaageous Frenchy’ mode.

I’ll just be driving in the ‘Normal’ mode, I think. At least until I practise a bit with the paddle shift gearbox and the launch control that is.

I’m a bit terrified to drive it to tell the truth. 

I was too scared to test drive it and made Scotto do it. 

I screamed loudly when he accelerated from 0 kms to 70 kms per hour in about three seconds and made him drive back to the dealership immediately, shouting at him the whole way about the thousand dollar excess if he pranged it.

One thing is certain. That is the first and last time Scotto will ever be allowed to drive it... bloody lead foot hoon.


So... what name do you think I should give my new car?

How is your Girl Power?

Still needs restaining...

I have excellent neighbours in my street.

We invited them all over on New Year’s Day to celebrate and christen the new deck (see above).

“What games have you been playing on your computer, mate?” Burt, who lives across the road, asked Scotto. “The noises and explosions are wild. I can hear them clear as day from my place.”

I sat up rigidly, shame-faced and self-conscious.

The noises emanating from our house weren’t from Scotto’s computer. They originated from me, binge watching Game of Thrones at an ear-splitting volume for hours on end.

Whilst this is a slothful and indulgent habit to engage in, I am now paying the price.

Remember how I told you I am very deaf in one ear because the little hairs in my ear canal are damaged?

Well I think I have further damaged them because now whenever I hear a loud noise my brain vibrates. It’s as if I’ve switched dimensions for a few seconds. This is not ideal when I have a neurotic Chihuahua who constantly breaks out in uncontrollable, high-pitched barking attacks. I’m currently walking around with a cotton ball in my ear to tone down the clang of plates clattering when I empty the dishwasher.

It could be wax… but I suppose I should go to the doctor.

Apart from that little anomaly, I feel in perfect health and have been assiduously walking around the mountain every single day of my holidays (except Boxing Day when I was too hungover).

This last week, I’ve been walking with my nutty but endearing neighbour, Mrs Bunny.

Mrs Bunny and I, are both desperate to rid ourselves of the three spare tyres around our midriffs.

Mrs Bunny calls hers, ‘the triplets’.

I haven’t named mine because I don’t want them to get too attached to me.

After five weeks of gruelling uphill treks, the rolls of fat are tenaciously resisting departure and I measured my waist with a tape measure yesterday and I’m still obese, according to the Internet.

Mrs Bunny and I have a great time on our uphill ambles talking about lots of things including how much we hate our stomachs, hips, thighs… and pretty much every centimetre of ourselves, actually.

I find the walks very uplifting.

“At least we haven’t said anything negative about ourselves this morning,” puffed Mrs Bunny yesterday.

“I hate my bat wings,” I huffed back, wiping the sweat out of my eyes.

“Oh God, me too! I HATE my arms!” agreed Mrs Bunny vehemently.

“I never wear singlets even if it’s 40 degrees,” I panted. “I don’t care about the people who say we should just let it all hang out. My arms are an abomination to society and should NEVER be out in public.”

“I ALWAYS cover my arms!” gasped Mrs Bunny. “I’m totally ashamed of the hideous flabby things. They’re a disgrace to womankind.”

We both nodded in a solemn acceptance of our non-singlet wearing futures.

We try to outdo each other with shocking stories regarding our dismal lack of grooming and time-wasting habits.

“Some days I just stay dressed in my active wear all day and binge watch House of Cards,” Mrs Bunny blurted out one day, with a particular expression on her face that invited outrage and disgust.

“Some days I go to the IGA with coffee breath, without brushing my hair from the day before, and wearing a stained t-shirt that I bought in 1998, then go home and look up conspiracy theories on Youtube all day,” I scoffed back.

“I ate KFC for lunch after our walk yesterday,” Mrs Bunny countered, eyeing me competitively.

“I drank a whole bottle of wine last night and it was a Wednesday,” I trumped back at her.

"I've got short, stumpy legs!" Mrs Bunny retaliated.

"So do I!" I replied. "I'm only taller than you because of my weirdly long torso and unattractively elongated neck!"

I’m here to tell you; we absolutely inspire each other on our walks. 



That's Girl Power...

What was your Favourite Chrissy present?

I have a smear test scheduled for tomorrow.

If there’s one thing I hate almost as much as mammograms, it’s smear tests.

When I made the appointment it was still December 2017 but apparently it’s now frickin January 2018.

Shit.

It seemed like so far away when I made the appointment on December 22, 2017.

And now it appears, if you have a smear test and you don’t have a certain venereal disease like Herpes Apple iONS11 you don’t have to have a smear test for another 5 years… but I know… I just know I will have that disease.

I will have that thing and I will have to do the walk of shame.

I will be mandated (by law) to have my insides violated every bloody year.

Whatever the f#ck.

Anyway, did you get some good Christmas presents?

Can I just say that I am really glad nobody bought me a frickin Fitbit for Christmas.

What the hell? A pedometer you wear on your arm???

I had a proper pedometer which I wore once and it informed me that the usual walk I took around the river was 6000 steps. That took about an hour so I knew that any one hour walk I engaged in was going to be was about 6000 steps so why the fudge did I ever need the stupid pedometer again?

It’s still sitting in a drawer somewhere.

I really don’t get the whole Fitbit thing.

My son gave me the most brilliant present ever.

A power bank.

For someone who drives vast distances in the wallops every day and who never remembers to recharge their phone when they probably need it in case of emergency (like running into a really big kangaroo, being washed away in flash floods or being abducted by a Wolf Creek, psychotic type assassin)  this is a bloody brilliant present.

But … how will I remember to recharge the power bank?

God.

Now I have another thing do.



Life used to be so simple when all you had to do was remember to put out the milk money.

linking up to Denyse Whelan Blog!

Did You Have a Good Christmas?

Apart from the fact that my German Shepherd almost bit my brother-in law’s face off and left two distinct fang marks in his forehead and chin with blood streaming everywhere and apart from the fact that most of us were very pissed and there was a bit of a skirmish on the front lawn on the next door neighbour’s driveway... it was a pretty good Christmas.

Don’t ask.

We had fun.

In a sense.

We had so much fun that I almost threw up in the Robina Town Centre Food Court because of the sickly smell of sweet and sour pork when I reluctantly took my darling daughter to indulge in Boxing Day shopping.

I must admit that I had to go and lie down in the car before she finished her spending scourge, but Scotto turned on the air-conditioning in the Tucson and I somehow managed not to throw up in his brand new car.

I kept thinking about dry crackers and deserts (deserts not desserts.)

It seemed to help with the pre-spew dribbling  when thinking about really dry stuff.

Christmas is hectic and although I enjoyed all the Facebook posts displaying everyone around their Christmas table and all the posts about Eggs Benedict and civilised celebrations… my Chrismas wasn’t that picturesque or civilised.

Not at all, really.

Our celebrations were more… boganesque.

That’s alright though.

No one died.

Except Albert, my parents’ dog… on Christmas Eve

My parents were understandably devastated by the event.

Naturally, the following day, whilst analysing the dramatic and drunken events of Christmas Day,  (in the presence of my mother), I boldly stated,

“Well! At least no one DIED!”

Everyone just stared at me in mortification.

“Except Albert,” I corrected myself as my poor mother began weeping in proper grief.

Dear God, help me to keep my big effing mouth closed, I prayed to baby Jesus.

Probs the worst Christmas ever.

When Your World is Literally About to Cave In.

Looks much worse than it appears in photo!

Scotto and I spent the past few days moving our couch closer and closer towards the telly because we were terrified the ceiling was going to collapse on top of us whenever the sub woofer kicked in.

Last week, while we were out cavorting and lunching, a cataclysmic hail storm thrust itself upon our mountain. 

Our backyard

I was worried about the animals as we drove home but they were okay, although the cat was quite pissed off...

Hail-damaged cat

“Go outside and make a snowman immediately!” I excitedly ordered Scotto, when we arrived home. 

He couldn’t do it though, because it was hail, not snow and it lacked the appropriate properties required, such as malleability.

This was reasonably discouraging, but not as discouraging as the three centimetres of water we later discovered behind the couch in our lounge room.

“Oh well,” I commented as we mopped it up. “I haven’t mopped behind here for two years. It probably needed it anyway.”

Later in the week, we both stared up at the lounge room ceiling in subdued dismay.

“Do you think those cracks in the paint and the popped nails in the ceiling have anything to do with the leak?” 

I asked Scotto, despondently.

We’ve since discovered we need to replace the entire ceiling throughout the whole damn house.

This is a nuisance because I have to take down all the pictures/paintings and remove all the ornaments around the place for when they paint.

Not to mention the fact that the house will be infested with strange tradies working in my house from early in the morning, watching me insert my false teeth whilst wearing my flea-bitten pajamas every morning… IN MY SCHOOL HOLIDAYS!

And as if that wasn’t enough, the roof guy came today to check there was no damage… and you guessed it… we need to have our ENTIRE ROOF replaced as well.

I pictured a semi-trailer meandering up the winding mountain road with a ‘wide load’ sign, carrying a large roof and followed by a long trail of extremely pissed off cars, but Scotto reassured me they bring the roof up in pieces.

What a pain in the bum this is all going to be.

I lived in the tropics for 50 years; we survived Cyclone Althea (1971), Cyclone Joy (1990), Cyclone Sid (1998), Cyclone Tessi (2000) and the mother of all cyclones, Yasi (2011).

One little hail storm up here and we have to have our roof and ceiling replaced.

A week before Christmas too.

Bugger.

And speaking of pains in the bum, Pablo the Chihuahua won’t stop licking his bum red raw even though we wormed him and I will probably have to take him to the vet which will most likely cost me a million dollars.

Why can’t we have a vet in the family?

Could Santa please make one of my children marry a vet?

Lulu recently ran into the Bondi Vet at the gym... he'd do...

Or even a ceiling/roof guy would be good...

What sort of son/daughter-in-law would be most convenient to you?

My Husband Loves Screwing Around

Sometime this year, we ousted our above ground pool because we never used it as it only gets hot enough to swim one/two days a year up here in the Gold Coast Highlands and the pool filter was escalating the fees incurred from our electricity bill (fancy way of saying our electricity bill was too fucking high).

The elderly lady who lives in the house below us probably wasn’t that impressed with 58000 litres of water spilling into her yard but we let it out slowly and we didn’t hear a peep from her.

I think her house has sunk a bit on one corner and maybe she drowned. Not really sure.

.

We decided to build decking over the resulting cavernous hole and the area is beginning to look a bit like a helipad.

Scotto estimates he has screwed in over 2000 screws so far. 

We don’t really need a helipad, but I’m positive it will come in handy when random movie stars and celebrity millionaires come to visit.

Now, after spending a fortune on timber to build this monstrosity, I suppose we will be expected to have it filled with expensive outdoor furniture.

FML.

I don’t like spending money. It’s the frugal Scottish ancestry coming out in me.

So, while Scotto has been outside in the harsh sun, building the deck and screwing his head off, I’ve been on school holidays and fruitfully employed binge watching Game of Thrones for the fourth time and attempting to replicate Cersei’s hairdos whilst sipping coffee and trimming my fungus infected toenails.

I’m constantly expecting Scotto to burst through the double dividing glass windows with a gold emblazoned screw driver and puncture my jugular in passionate revenge whilst screaming, “I’m the King of the North, why aren’t you working wench?”

But I don’t really feel guilty about him working laboriously whilst I laze around like a fat pig.

I know that each time Scotto hears the theme song of GOT echoing throughout the hallways of our castle after I’ve clicked on yet another episode, he grasps the importance of my ‘down time’ and comprehends that this is just my method of unwinding from a particularly stressful year.

I lie.

I have wasted my entire first week of my six weeks of school holidays, binge watching a very silly fantasy series which I have already watched three times.

What is wrong with me?

I’m sure I’ll break out of this careless and indolent period of hedonism sooner or later.

Maybe… next week.

Maybe.


What should I be doing instead (and please don’t say helping Scotto because I hate anything to do with screwing)?

When Your Inheritance is at Stake

Now that I’m on holidays I have some free time to visit my parents who live down the road.

I called in to their place yesterday at morning tea time in anticipation of a happy reunion and some of Dad’s home cooking.

I knocked plaintively at the door because the curtains were drawn and there were funeral dirges playing on the stereo; the air was sombre.

Mum greeted me at the door with a deep, tragic sigh and informed me that their beloved cocker spaniel, Albert, was in his  final stage of life and they were about to call in a priest for the extreme unction ceremony and anointing of oils.

Fat Albert was lying in his bed and wagged his tail and leaped up to greet me when I sauntered in to the subdued ambiance of the kitchen .

“He looks all right to me!” I scoffed in an attempt to lighten the melancholy atmosphere.

“No,” my mother exhaled heavily, a tear sliding down her cheek. “He’s gone off his food. We’re taking him to the vet. Not the horrible vet that can’t speak English, but to a proper vet. The poor animal probably won’t see out the end of this week.”

I pitied the poor non English speaking vet for a moment then went about by unprofessional examination.

I felt the spoiled creature’s ribs which still seemed to be adequately encased in a layer of fat (as far as my probing fingers were able to determine anyway). This is a dog who will most probably inherit my inheritance. I secretly wanted to pinch it to tell the truth. I wanted to pinch it hard.

When the cups of tea came out, Dad brought out a plate of shortbread biscuits.

“Here, Albert!” I called. “Come and have a biccy.” I whispered under my breath, “You little fudging faker”.
The dog approached me with bright eyes and wagging tail and snatched the shortbread from my hand, gobbling it up like a dog ready for a good old, rambunctious fox chase across the moors... or like Lassie finally coming home to Timmy... or like Rin Tin Tin alerting the WW1 soldiers about the approach of an enemy tank.

I gave the little fraud another biscuit… and another. Each biscuit was voraciously seized from my hand with a zealous, hungry ferocity which left distinct and painful fang marks in my knuckles.

“Well! He seems to have picked up a bit…” commented my mother.


Hmmm. Inheritance safe for another day.

Why I Haven't Been Blogging

Tuna the Dog

Tomorrow is the last day of school.

But guess who has a job again at the same beautiful, little country school next year?

I KNOOOOOOW! I’m ecstatic.

We had our staff Christmas party last Saturday and it was held up on my mountain so two of my teacher buddies had a sleep over and … well… let’s just say we bonded over eighties music and about eighteen bottles of wine.

On Tuesday night, the grade sixes had their graduation so (to avoid driving home at night) I had a sleep over at my teacher buddy, Catherine Mary’s house.

At first she put me in the bedroom next to hers and then she must have remembered that I kept her awake with my gentle snoring on school camp… so she shunted me right to the back of the house.

“I don’t want you to stay awake all night worrying about snoring,” Catherine Mary insisted magnanimously.

The idea had never entered my head. Why would I worry about that? It’s never worried me before. 

She’s such a thoughtful creature.

The last thing Catherine Mary told me about before we retired, was the fact that massive huntsmen spiders liked to run in and out of the open, unscreened windows in her rambling Old Queenslander. 

Needless to say, I had an exceptionally light sleep that night and consequently didn’t snore at all. 

It was nice of her to warn me though.

We went for a lovely walk in the morning before school and this is a photo that Catherine Mary took of the little town I work in.

Catherine Mary's awesome shot

Gorgeous isn’t it?

This is why I haven’t been blogging lately. I’ve been busy.

Today we took the kids to a place near Brisbane for ten pin bowling and laser skirmish. Because there was no room on the bus, I was allowed to drive and meet them all there. Naturally, I became hopelessly lost. I was still earlier to arrive than they were though because the bus driver got lost too.

I’ve just been busy wrapping Christmas presents for our end of year staff lunch tomorrow and I’ve sent Scotto up to the bottlo because I forgot something. He’s also on a mission to buy some chick starter and sawdust because one of the teachers at work is giving me three newborn chicks tomorrow. 

Scotto and I are already bickering over which Game of Thrones characters we’ll name them after.

Apparently these chicks are a cross between Pekins and Modern Game.

This is a picture of a Modern Game chicken.

Ugly, huh? They look like roadrunners. I don’t care though. 

I like ugly animals, in fact, the uglier the better.

I want a pet that can make me some money. It’s about time one of my pets started paying out.

There’s the famous “Tuna the dog”, and “Grumpy Cat”, and a fairly well-known porcupine but I don’t think there are any famous ugly chickens so perhaps mine shall be the first.

Now that the holidays are upon us, you can expect to hear a lot more from Pinky Poinker, but after today I won’t be posting on my own personal timeline (so as not to alienate my friends who hate Pinky’s guts, and believe me, there are some).

However, if you want to torture yourself you had better like Pinky’s Facebook page or you'll never hear from her again.

CLICK HERE!

Love youse all xxx