Cause and Effect

Christopher Walken as the Angel of Death.

In a lyrically traditional piece of symbolism, the Angel of Death passed over my house on Easter Sunday. We enjoyed a low-key and major-incident-free celebration with family and close friends. As one might expect from the events of Christmas, though:-

for those of you whose merciful memories have suppressed the Yuletide incident – we came unstuck yesterday.

Magic Man, like the proud little digger he is, shed blood on ANZAC day. It all started when I was at blissful repose, inside the makeshift cone of silence I’d cobbled together from headphones, my internet connection and Youtube. Magic Man came rushing into the room, face twisted in anguish, gabbling something or other than for some reason I couldn’t interpret. Oh, the headphones – right. When I took them off, I heard:

‘A chook’s gotten out of the chook yard and The Dangerous Dog is out, too!’

Since the Dangerous Dog was doing his best to trip Magic Man up – i.e. arguably inside at the time – I failed to panic.

‘Settle down, mate. The chook’s gotten out before.’

And it has. My chook yard might as well be Stalag 13, the number of times this chook has escaped. It may be that Tikka is so stupid – even by chook standards – that she can’t realise we’ve got a free-ranging hound out here and she’s got food, water, shelter and companions in there. It may be that she’s a poultrine freedom fighter, protesting her interment at Villawood by the Sea. It may be chaos theory in action. Whatever the root cause, the kids and I have got re-capturing and returning her down to a fine art. We sprang into action.

Livestock corralled, we conducted a forensic assessment of the scene of the crime. There was clear evidence of dog-digging along the front fence line and a new gap along the back fence.

‘Aha!’ we concluded, ‘DD tried to dig in and Tikka panicked and fled out the back through a tunnel she’d made ready.’

The bloodshed came when he tried to patch up the yard. To cut to the chase, Magic Man stumbled backwards and stepped hard onto the upturned edge of the Weber lid. Which, as it happens, is sharp enough to gash a gusher into the sole of a 10 year old’s foot.

There was wailing, there was a great deal of invective hurled at Elf Boy – who was blamelessly on the other side of the backyard at the time, there was limping, there were tears. I got him in the shower first, to rinse off the archaeological layers of mud, blood and chook poo.

Elf Boy tried to help by yanking his brother’s dick ‘To distract him from the pain in his foot.’

I responded with a string of curse words delivered in a tone of voice so many octaves below my normal pitch that for a moment I wondered if I’d finally been possessed by an incubus.

In conclusion, I patched Magic Man up and after another day’s rest and elevation of the affected limb I hope he’ll be fit for camp. Some of it, at least. They’re only travelling 40 clicks or so south from us, so I can always go and change his dressing if required.

Needless to say, though, I’m fearful of the terror the Labour Day long weekend might hold. Stay tuned.


53 Responses

  1. Leave ’em all home and take yourself off to the the camp… or to an address unknown! Just leave a note using letters cut from old newspapers saying you just might return after Labour Day if peace is assured. We wish!

  2. Good advice, Stafford.

    Can I come and stay on the yacht with you, please?

  3. You know my solution to these problems – Christian youth camp.
    No child should go to sleep on school holidays without the words to Kumbaya echoing through that hollow space between their ear drums and their nausea reflex.

  4. What have the Christians done to deserve accommodating my spawn in the holidays?

    It would make their experiences in the Coliseum look like the good old days.

    Speaking of Christians, did you see this?

  5. I’m sorry but I couldn’t get past “Elf Boy tried to help by yanking his brother’s dick ‘To distract him from the pain in his foot.’”

    As for Christian youth camps, that’s where we learned proper snogging and what could be done in a moving bus, under a blanket. Stuff Kumbableedinya.

    • He didn’t learn that technique from me, I can assure you.

      It’s from the father’s side.

  6. God doesn’t like it when they sing.

  7. I suppose if you are worried about the next long weekend you could always prepare the children with the philosophy ‘when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.’
    Live long and prosper, little chicken tikka.

  8. Thank you, Quokka. Your Punjabi Prince of the Kebab was oddly hypnotic and soothing. I watched him twice.

    “I’m not seeing any lime juice here.”

    Problem, is, as soon as I sit down and slip on the headphones to enjoy some YouTube, I half-expect someone to run into the room wailing and for some new hell to be unleashed.

    My adrenals must be the size of cricket balls.

  9. For our next relaxation exercise, take a deep breath and imagine the beach at venezuala, where the little tomato birdy flies above and shits on all the tourists heads.

  10. Hehehe.

    I feel much better now, thanks.

    Have you got a mantra for me, Guru Quokka?

  11. Deliver one hundred dollars to my bank account and assume the lotus position.

    • That sounds just like the noise I make whenever someone says “school holidays”…

      Aaaaargh! aaaaargh!! aaaaargh!!!

      There I go again.

      In re depositing to your bank account, let me quote from an email I just received: “Can you please forward me your name, sex, address, current occupation, bank name, bank account number and other details etc.?”

      I was surprised that Roland – who was claiming to be such a good mate that he trusted me with his 29,000,000 pounds – didn’t even know I was a woman.

  12. I love this stuff. Thanks to Miss Catty for directing me here.

    Now to go back and catch up on the happenings in the land of Old Crone.

  13. And we love you, Melbo.

    Just don’t mention “crone” and “Catty” in the same sentence. She’s only 29 (recurring).

  14. Someone’s roasting children?
    Really? Where?
    Why am I never invited to the really good parties?

  15. Why does all the fun stuff happen at your place, Madam? Despite spending half the day pruning a wasp-infected lemon tree, the only screech-worthy thing that happened to my kidlets was being licked by a water buffalo.

  16. You let them visit with SJS?

  17. Funny thing, that. I haven’t seen a Burger comment from SJS for many months. Is she trolling twitter now? If so, I’m glad I don’t twit.

  18. Since she’s a sock puppet, I assume:

    (1) they threw her in a hot wash accidentally;
    (2) she shrunk down to such a tiny size that;
    (3) her trolling is now audible only to field mice, and;
    (4) her stumpy stumpy little sock fingers can’t reach a keyboard.

    She’s sitting in a thimble at the moment, plotting world domination and nibbling on dolly mixture.

  19. I thought she’d been killed off and replaced by Treeman and some other ugly personality there.

  20. Death is swift and merciful.

    I prefer to think of her suffering an eternal – if miniscule – thwarting.

  21. Oh you mean that slow roast sucking pig style hungi in the flames of hell that we keep writing off and requesting for her?

  22. SJS was a sock puppet? Bugger. I miss out on all the good goss. Whose hand was up her tushie?

  23. Just sniff their fingers.
    You’ll see.

  24. Ewwwww! I’ll pass, thanks.

  25. It’s all right for you, Catty – I’m entertaining this woman IRL tomorrow.

    Mental note: make sure I’m sniffably fresh.

  26. Yes, for the woman who’s lived with 11 cats and a dog for the last three months.
    I should be on the road by 6.30am, give or take a few pit stops and shall see you around 9am.
    I can’t get too lost, I’ve looked at the street map and you seem much easier to find than my mate Rhino who lives up with the elves to your south. And I can usually find my way there. Albeit via a process of slow circling until I hit the target.

  27. Duh……. duh
    duh……. duh
    duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh

    Cletus “What’s that ominous music, as of an apex predator circling ?”

    “Don’t you worry none – It’s just Quokka looking for my place.”

  28. I just read this:

    Yeah, I know the whole escapee pets/deranged dogs topic was abandoned several comments ago, but it’s funny.

    Now I am off to send an email to the most wonderful, beautiful, thoughtful, delightful, wonderful (did I say that one already? Well, I’ll say it again) e-sister in the whole wide world. Yep, the postman came!

  29. Beware the postman – I’m told he always rings twice.

    He must be gay – most straight men can barely bring themselves to ring once.

  30. Too cryptic for me.
    Forgot to tell you, the magic sleeping formula should be fine for a year past that date, I’m still using them & I haven’t turned green…take two, 1 hour before you usually go to bed, & limit tea & coffee to 3 or less drinks per day.

    Wish I could be a fly on the wall to see the expression on your boy’s face when he comes home to find the houdini twins in his room. I can’t imagine that pair resisting the lure of the patchwork quilt for too long after their long confinement in my dungeon.

    Lovely to see you & happy hunting on the UNE website, etc.

  31. Flotsam (green collar, I’m calling him Flotsam) has already availed himself of the quilt and my affections this arvo.

    I figure after his brother stages a few more successful sorties into the Wilds of ELf Boy’s Lair, returning under the train table having lived to tell the tale, that Jetsam will cotton on that it’s safe to venture out.

    That, or the tasty bowl of tuna I just left for them.


    That’s supposed to be a happy cat – I’m not searching for computer graphics courses!

  32. Yes, that’s Flotsie. What a brave boy.
    I predict he’ll be on the dooner by dawn.
    Forgot to say, they’ve been eating tuna in spring water so if it’s brine, that could confuse them.

    Don’t expect they’ll be too hungry as Allan gave them an enormous Last Supper.

    And yes we’d love to come up and see them.
    Whether or not we’ll make it off the couch in the next five years is another matter. We have an assortment of friends in your neck of the woods who’ve forgotten what we look like because we’re such a pair of slackers.

  33. Cat update:
    I was sitting at my computer in the pre-dawn hours, as is my habit, when an imperious “Mmmrow!” issued from Elf Boy’s room.

    I went in to find Flot on the bed, so sat down to cuddle him. Jet joined the love fest and crept right up beside me where he stayed for about half-an-hour, quietly accepting strokes and admiration.

    Then, as though by arrangement, they retired together back under the train-table.

    IOvernight, they ate half the tuna (canned in Thai slum water for Woolies home-brand, but meeting AVA recommendations for a balanced cat diet) and, mercifully, have availed themselves of the litter box.

    I think they’ll be fine.

    I’ll upload some pix to assuage Vanessa and Allan – but please reassure them that I’m reasonably skilled in small animal husbandry. Hell, even Elf Boy’s sea monkeys are still thriving!

  34. No need to worry about them, I’ve reported on the dog’s placid nature and lack of interest in the cats and that’s the end of that worry.

    Vanessa isn’t surprised they were on the bed on the first night and thinks they’re doing well, so good for you.

    I’m so pleased they’re out of my dungeon and on your bed.
    Ninja and Summer look a bit put out at losing their playmates/brothers but at least now Vanessa just has only one cat to relocate and she thinks she’s found somewhere for ninjy. Summer is destined to life at the vet as a blood donor so I’ve told her she should make the most of things here while the vet’s cattery restorations are under way.

    Hum de dum.
    Oh, that’s right, I have case studies I’m meant to be doing. La la la. For one happy moment, I forgot. Ecstasy girl is out of my way and now I’ve got IBS girl and Uterine Cyst girl to contend with.

    IBS girl is easy as she’s been unwell since moving out of home and not having Mother to do everything for her (her words, not mine) & Uterine Cyst girl will be easy, too. Just time consuming, but I must get them out of the way by Monday or Menopause Woman will froth at the mouth and sprout werewolf hair, and we don’t want that.

  35. Please tell Vanessa I’m very grateful that she raised them so prettily, and they’re already much loved.

    Hehehe. I’m wondering how you’ve got me categorised, Quokka:

    Crazy Woman I’ve Shared Many But Only Quasi Intersecting Experiences With? (typical of Brisbane, that last)

    Triathalon Woman (because of my multifarous and conflicting cycles, I mean… obviously I wouldn’t even watch an actual Triathalon)

    Woman Who Might As Well Be Done With It and Open Her Own Petting Zoo?

  36. If I’m not categorized as the Deranged Pirate Queen, I’m going to sulk.

    Meanwhile, if you have any natural remedies for uterine cysts, Quokka, I’d be happy to play guinea pig.

  37. Catty my tip for the day is don’t get an IUD and then catch an STD.

    Morgana, simple – Randy Vet’s Niece.

  38. I can cure uterine cysts naturally, too.

    A splade, a bottle of rum and a leather strap to bite on are all natural, right?

  39. You guys are a great help. I’m going back to my vodka.

  40. Vodka is not a cure.

    But it will ease the pain… or at least, rearrange the pain.


  41. Well bugger me, this herbally supplement bullshit actually seems to be working. Who’d have thunk.

    Excuse me, but I need to see what everyone wore to the wedding last night and seeing as Joan River’s Fashion Police special got axed alongside the chaser I’m going to have to form my own opinions.

    FK I hate it when I wake up with aunt irma and have to think for myself.

    I was out at a book launch at Avid last night so I missed most of the fun.

    How’s those precious fluffies, MM? Busy snuggling up on beds?

  42. Oh, and BTW, I saw your email but the cybergoblins won’t let me respond to it. Fracking computer. At least your blog is back in English today. And you’ll see Vanessa on T-day, so photos and stories of how gorgeous they are will be welcome by all.

  43. My darling boys are continuing to dig themselves in.

    Flotsam darts OUT from under the table with a welcoming “prrrip!” whenever I open the door and proceeds to rub himself all over me. Jetsam is more circumspect, but comes out when they summon me at about 4:30 a.m. for the group love-in.

    This is obviously their version of bedtime stories and snuggles. If I don’t come in of my own accord, Flotsam summons me with a premptory “Mrrrrow!”.

    That’s okay… I’m used to responding to “Muuuuuum!”

    It’s actually beautiful weather up here, which must be a mistake by the weather gods, since it’s a long weekend and all. Kids woke (in the cat room) before dawn so after the forced march into a sub-zero southerly…. aka “walking the dog”… we went to Yandina markets to slog through the mud.

    I bought a stack of plants and have created an instant patio feature – but am now too exhausted to take photos and post them. Maybe after after lunch, when I plan to nap in the cat room.

    They’re very soothing – and much more amusing than yoga.

    The cats, I mean. Obviously the spawn are not soothing. Luckily, due to oestrogen and custom, I still love them.

  44. I’ve done my hip. The pain is vomitous. So I’m following Quokka’s lead – sort of – and am off to lie flat on my bed with chocolate and the tv remote. I still haven’t seen the wedding dress, because Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey was on the telly. And as we all know, if it’s a choice between a royal wedding with a princess bride, or doofuses battling evil robots and starting a band with the Grim Reaper, the doofuses will win every time.

    I’m still not overly interested in the wedding, but I am very interested in the bed/chocolate/tv remote bit, and wedding re-hash stories are pretty much the only thing on tv – unless SBS has one of their endless documentaries about penises.

    Meanwhile, the Boss has decided to rearrange all the furniture and the computer and several of the bookshelves in our living area. Oh, such a pity, I can’t help him with this bung hip. I hope he doesn’t tire himself out, as he is also going to have to cook dinner tonight.

    Now, where did I leave those Lindt peanut butter easter eggs?

  45. Ooh, poor Catty. Hip pain is nasty shite.
    This should cheer you up – clearly in an act of retribution for their mother being banished from the wedding, Princesses Bea & Eugenie dressed up as the Evil Step Sisters from Disney’s cinderella movie (I hear there’s a copyright infringement lawsuit headed their way) and Bea couldn’t find a suitable topping for her hat, so nicked one of Santa’s hood ornaments and used that. Such a shame Fergie wasn’t allowed as it was all that was missing to complete the set.

    Poor Catty. If only Joan Rivers had been allowed to do her Fashion Police segment on the royal wedding you’d have been laughing too hard to notice your injuries.

    Pain killers are your friend, take many.
    But not when you’re choosing an outfit for a televised wedding, as this pair obviously did.

  46. Oh and MM, happy to hear that the houdini twins are settling in. Jet is a bit shyer than his brother so that’s normal for him. Once he starts snuggling though, he does tend to cling to your lap like a limpet to a rock.

  47. Oh, poor Catty. Were you trying to put your ankles behind your ears again? We’re going to get you a sling instead. All the good swingers have them, and it’ll take the strain off your joints – they lose flexibility when you’re 29 (recurring).

    Still, rearranging bookshelves is the devil and there are Lindt peanut butter eggs…. Lindt PB eggs, why wasn’t I told? Mental note: focus more on the aisles while shopping, worry less about where the nearest exit is and debit card balance….

    Quokka’s right again, though – pain killers ARE your friend. Even when you’re not injured. Just ask the Mexican chemist who keeps sending me emails.

    I think Prince Andrew’s children are remarkably good-looking, considering their gene pool. She should have nipped over the Channel and picked up a second-hand burqa, though. I hear the French have got plenty for sale.

  48. The danger of that is that in combination with the hat she’d be mistaken for a runaway talking four poster bed.
    Which means there’d still be a lawsuit from Disney over that.

  49. She should have gone with the Grecian Urn – the nipped waist is more flattering atop a horse face.

  50. I can’t see what all the fuss was about. Sure, the hat (?) was laughably ridiculous, but so were most of the other hats (?) pictured in the article. Even Her Maj looked a bit silly with that yellow cardboard cutout balanced precariously on her bouffant grey tresses.

    Poor old Beats. The criticisms are constant. She flaunts her fat rolls in a bikini, and people sneer. She pashes a girl, and people sneer. She power-walks in lycra, and people sneer. She goes out with a drug dealer, and people sneer. She gets drunk and pukes at nightclubs, and people sneer. She wears a wedding cake on her head, and people sneer. Why are people so unkind to bogans?

  51. Back up a minute… she pashed a girl?

    Was it Katy Perry, or what?

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