I WON!

I’m highly competitive. 

I love to enter competitions but I never expect to win and frankly, I never do. 

When I say never, I mean NEVER.

I have occasionally come second or third, but I never win.

Once, when I was twelve years of age, I won a picnic blanket in a raffle and my mother used it afterwards as a dog blanket which was a disappointment because all I ever yearned for as a child was a picnic. 

The fact I remember that unremarkable incident from forty-four years ago, should relay to you how truthful my statement is that I just don’t win stuff. 

Plus it should reveal to you what a picnic deprived childhood I had.

I always rehearse my winner’s acceptance speech for anything I enter because, despite being a serial loser for the last 56 years, I still always expect to win. I think that’s what I would call an optimist. 

It’s always a suitably fake-humble acceptance speech I must add. I ALWAYS thank the other competitors in my pretend acceptance speech.

So when I saw an email in my inbox yesterday with the subject title, “You Won!”, I was understandably skeptical.

I assumed it was a Nigerian Prince telling me I’d won his private lottery.

I almost deleted it.

What could I have won? I hadn’t entered anything lately that I could recall.

For some reason I clicked on the email and fudge me... I had actually won something.

Not money.

Of course not.

But it was something I had accidentally and serendipitously won.

Hmmmpf.

The funny thing is that Scotto was entering this same competition (on a subject of which he has some expertise) and when I was lying in bed beside him one night I stuck my big snout in and said, “What are you up to, buddy boy?”

He told me he was submitting some entries into a local photographic competition and full of Dutch courage and unwarranted confidence, I slurred, “Well enter me too! I have an entry!”

Reluctantly, he did. Even though my photo entry was taken on my shithouse Sony phone.

The result is that I won and he didn’t.

Lol.

Come Meet the Locals on Tamborine Mountain

So... we've been living on Tamborine Mountain for seven months and we haven't gone bonkers yet despite everyone's predictions. 

Mind you, apart from our lovely neighbours, we haven't really made any friends so today we thought we'd take a stroll around the village and attempt to strike up an acquaintance or two. 

I must say... they weren't a very talkative bunch.

There was Pam the artist who ignored us as she was busy playing Pokemon Go and couldn't tear herself away from her art.

There was Bill (or Ben... not sure) who kept asking us if we had any weed...

We came upon a dragon with bloodshot eyes who kept puffing smoke and I really began to wonder about what the locals are growing in their fields.

This family were friendly but haven't seemed to have grasped the whole engineering aspect of train tracks...

This girl captured my heart with her pink hair but I think she might need to think about switching nail salons.

This is actually my dentist. We have a love-hate relationship but let's just say I hope he and his family enjoy their holiday in the Bahamas on me.

This is Alice who was waiting outside the dentist to have her braces fitted. She can't afford a car anymore because of the expensive dental work so she has to catch the bus. There are no buses here but I didn't tell her because I didn't want to upset her what with her looking as though she might have underlying anger issues.

This is the guy waiting outside the dentist for when you don't pay your bill. He's called the EXTRACTOR. He's quite nice when you get chatting.

This lady, Glenda, is what happens when you drink far too many Chardonnays at Clancy's Irish Restaurant and then irresponsibly get on your broom to fly home. 

 This is the local alcoholics anonymous rep coming to invite Glenda to a meeting.

This is Glenda's mother coming to pick her up. She'd been babysitting Glenda's kids last night and had them come with her in the back seat to see what a disgrace their mother is.

This is Glenda's friend, Mabel, who she'd been partying with last night. She had a really good time at Clancy's. "Life's too fudging short, you losers!" I believe were her last words as she plunged towards the ground at 150 kilometres an hour.

This is a local real estate agent. His clothing reveals just how tough the property market is at the moment.

This suave lady's man is our local book worm who sits outside the library. He told me that he once had a one night stand. But his books wouldn't all fit on it.

This is Con the Fruiterer who is hungover from his night at Clancy's where he'd whooped it up with a couple of wild women. He wondered how they felt this morning. He hoped they felt better than him.

Meet our Vet. He's treating this cow for mastitis and mad cow disease.

They do serve crow at this cafe, believe it or not. But they call it chicken on the menu. Jokes. 

It was a warm day so Scotto sat down with a couple of locals.

 I'm glad to see ET found his way home to his gingerbread house.

This is caring Carla from the RSPCA.  She wonders why the entire community seems to have such a murderous hatred towards crows,

These people were just down the road from Clancy's Irish Bar and still haven't made it home from the night before.

Ah. Me old mate from Mitre Ten. These blokes were the first lovely people we met on the mountain when we went up looking for snake proof chicken wire and they laughed and laughed at us. "Our mountain snakes eat chicken wire for breakfast," they mocked.

This is what happens when you swallow water melon seeds. Don't do it kids!

This is Tammy the local tourist guide looking glamorous as usual. 

This guy is a patient waiting outside the doctor's surgery. He'd been at Clancy's last night too and had fallen off a table whilst trying to simultaneously dance with Glenda and Mabel and play the tin whistle.

 Scarecrow fail.

This guy was waiting for a Tarot reading. He'd met a couple of fun chicks at Clancy's last night and wanted to know which one he should ring for a date.

Master chef of desserts this guy is. I could tell by his moustache and his OUTRAGGGGEOOUS French accent (plus the ice-cream he's holding).

These guys are tourists up from the coast visiting the Monkey Tree Bar on Gallery Walk. 

The family resemblance is uncanny... I think it's the eyes.

Hay baby!

This guy wanted a hug from everyone who walked past.

This chef went mad so they shot his legs off and now he has to ride around on a wine cask in fields of lilac. 

This is a scarecrow of a crippled Dachshund.

This is the dachshund the scarecrow was modelled on... Andrew Morris.(That's his actual name). I know. Awwww.

This is the mayor of Tamborine Mountain. 

Naturally there were shenanigans going on at the Brewery where some poor avocado farmer had been abducted by a giant crow. I don't blame the crow what with the price of avocados these days.

This is Jack, one of the local lads. He works at the local nursery and specialises in growing legumes.

And last but not least we bumped into Molly, the St Bernard's Hotel mascot with her new little companion. 

Of course we had to drop in for a drink after all that walking.

This is all part of the Tamborine Mountain Scarecrow Festival which was held this weekend. 

Good wholesome fun!

Why I Love People Born in September.

It was my birthday yesterday, along with a lot of other people who have been celebrating on FB lately. 

 So many people celebrate their birthday in September. December is clearly the month for hanky-panky after all the Christmas spirit having been imbibed, probably leading to surprise pregnancies nine months later.

It’s a wonder everyone born in September doesn’t have foetal alcohol syndrome. Our mothers were probably off their faces when they conceived us, guys.

Or maybe we all do have it and we just don’t know it, because we have it.

Do I have it? You’d tell me if I did, wouldn’t you?

Oh well. What I don’t know won’t hurt me, I suppose.

It’s not funny really. I’m not making light of a serious subject. I’ve looked up the symptoms and I think I do have it actually and it’s why I have so many friends born in September. We’re flocking together.


Of course the most important thing about birthdays is the receiving of presents and these are the presents I received in no particular order of favourites.

Scotto had a portrait of my son (with my grand dog in it) put on canvas.

I can’t publish the photo because my son hates me putting him on the Internet and as he wasn’t born in September he probs knows better than I do.

My dogs gave me nothing which didn’t surprise me. Thankless bastards that they are.

My sister had one of my favourite wedding photos made into a decorative cushion which I really loved.

It was my wedding, btw. Not just my favourite, random wedding.

My Mum and Dad bought me a very large green tablecloth which I picked out myself and which I adore because it will cover my big wooden table where I’ve planned a lot of future Italian type family gatherings. (Certain members of the family are banned from sitting at the table unless they fold the tablecloth back because of their propensity to spill rum and cokes and flick smoldering ash. One of these family members was born in September… just saying.)

My five children (under the bossy guidance of my only daughter… thank God I had her because none of the boys would have had the impetus) arranged for a voucher from Stefan so I can have my sandy/beige foils re-done.

And even the government sent me a little present which was a lovely, totally unexpected honour.

Birthday Bowel Testing Kit!

We had a backyard party under the tree with all the animals attempting to steal food from the table and king parrots hanging around the pool fence.

The best gift was that my sister and her family came all the way down from North Queensland to celebrate with me.

Admiring her from across the table, I commented that my niece looks a bit like Audrey Hepburn. Mum pitched in that people used to say that about my sister, Sam, when she was young.

“These days, I just look like I ate Audrey Hepburn,” my sister complained bitterly.

I spat my champagne all over my new tablecloth at that one.

She’s a laugh, my sister. She was always described as the ‘beautiful’ sister by outsiders when we were kids. Now that I've figured out about the foetal alcohol syndrome thing I can finally accept why that was without feeling extremely vilified. 

I couldn't help the way I looked. 

It. wasn't. my. fault.

So… since my birthday last year I have sold and bought a house, resigned from my job of ten years and worked at five different schools, dined at almost every surf club on the Gold Coast, gained an extra five kilograms, taken up extreme bush walking, lost 2.6 grams and spent at least $2000 at the dentist who is seemingly collecting my extracted teeth to sell for a bucket load on the ivory black market.

I’ve also learned to find my way around the Gold Coast without using the GPS or ringing Scotto in tears, shrieking into the phone and hyperventilating that I’m “fudging lost again”. 

I wonder what the next twelve months will bring.

These are my three main goals:

1. Get a proper job.

2. Lose 4.9974 kg

3. Grow back my teeth.



Do you make goals on your birthday? Are you a September baby?

Stick that in your Fanny Bag!

Remember this time last year I was boring you all stupid with posts about my buffalo grass? I went on for months didn’t I?

Sorry.

But now you have to get ready for an inundation of posts about bush walks.

“What the fudge are these piddling, tiny things supposed to fudging be?” I screamed at Scotto this morning after the parcel delivery guy had zoomed back out of our driveway on his scooter.

“What the fudge are these? Snake Gaiters for ants?” I ranted.

I’d ordered (online) snake gaiters from a company I will (for legal reasons) call, ‘AnnaFuckonda’ and even though I had ordered ‘small’ because I’m sort of small, they’d sent me the ‘Junior” version which I presume must have to them meant fudging ‘six years fudging old’.

I was relying on these gaiters because we are doing a LOT of bush walking and frankly, I’m sick of looking out for random snakes. I just want to walk along enjoying the scenery knowing if a fudging taipan decides to lunge at me he will bounce off the Teflon gaiter thing and have to go to the dentist for a root canal and crown because he knocked a fang out.

But… naturally, the eejits who organise internet packing of stuff couldn’t do their fudging job right and now I have to continue to risk my life walking amongst venomous reptiles who aren’t afraid of a silly pair of Kathmandu hiking boots.

I looked around a few internet sites and apparently Australian snakes are a bit feeble and can’t bite much because they have small fangs so I’m thinking if I wear jeans I should be fairly safe until I can order some new snake gaiters. Of course, I make Scotto walk ahead of me on our treks in order to scare away the snakes with his heavy trudging but he can’t really be trusted because most animals like him and the snakes would probably let him pass and then take an instant dislike to me. 

That is the general pattern of my life anyway.

We called into the Mitre 10 on the mountain before our gaiter-less walk this morning. The guy there told us that as it is spring time, the snakes are a lot more active and that their venom is more potent but not to worry as they are more scared of us than we are of them.

I call bullshit. I am definitely more scared of them. Even though I’ve never seen one.

What I will say is that I’m becoming addicted to the pure, clean oxygen, the smell of the rainforest, the meditative clumping of boot steps, the sounds of whip birds and kookaburras, the burning in my thighs as I climb the mossy rocks, the cool, ginger-pepper air and the squelch of wet leaves under my feet. It’s the best free exercise you can dream of.

I bloody love it.

I've ordered a fanny bag (online) to carry my asthma puffer, three compression bandages (in case of snake bite) and a packet of aspirin in case of unexpected stroke. We should be safe unless the fanny bag turns out to be designed for a six year old.



What’s your favourite form of exercise?

I'm Occasionally Highly Visible

I sent an official resignation letter to my old school yesterday advising them I will NEVER be returning. That means I’m stuck here on the Gold Coast, with no job, no family (except parents) and no people that know about my shady, nefarious past.

That’s one thing I suppose.

So it looks like it’s a relief teacher’s career for me from now on.

Woo hoo.

Today, I had Prep, Grade 1, Grade 2, Grade 3 and Grade 4 for an hour each.

It was a bloody long day.

It was all going splendidly until I slithered into Grade 1 and accidentally instructed the kids to glue a particular worksheet into their scrap books. By the manner in which the stressed out teacher entered the classroom in a highly anxious state, after the hour was over, I realised my instructions had actually been, “Under no circumstances let those brats glue the worksheet into their scrapbooks!” instead of what I’d misheard it as, “Ask those brats to stick the worksheet into their scrapbooks with full gluey adhesive, non-removable Selley’s Aruldite.”

The teacher was not happy.

I then had to borrow her ‘high visibility’ jacket to do a handball-swerving, playground duty and managed to spill cranberry sauce from my turkey/salad/cranberry wrap all over said jacket.

Oh well, orange is the new black, so I’ve heard.

I tried to wash it out under the water bubbler but by the time I handed it back to her it was a soggy, disgusting mess and looked like someone had had their period all over it.

I’m guessing she won’t be requesting me back into her classroom even though she was very nice about the whole thing.

I wish I could listen to instructions more closely. In my defence, I did ask the kids at least five times whether or not they were supposed to glue the worksheet in and quite a few responsible looking ones said, ‘YES! Mrs. Poinker,' which at the time, I took to be an honest and reliable answer.

Little liars. They probably just wanted me to get into trouble.

You just can’t trust Grade Ones.