Zombie Scrub Turkeys Attack!

Well, that was fun.  We enjoyed a relatively uneventful trip up to visit Uncle and Aunt and all the tiny horses at the miniature stud, earlier this week.  Well, you know, I still had to drive through Gympie but since we were enthralled by a game of ‘I Spy Something That’s Not A Gun Shop Or A Redneck” I was too busy to even wince.

The journey home was strange, though, at a bare minimum with surreal flashes.  There was debate at the gate, which I won with my “If it’s shut when you get there, leave it shut” argument.

Rarely do I taste victorious vindication at all, let alone almost immediately, but less than 30 metres down the track we encountered a heifer who was reluctant to share the road.

“Lucky I made you shut the gate.” I observed, smug as a cat with a mouthful of budgie.  I crawled the car up, to ease past her.

“See, Mumma – I told you there were feral cows!” said Elf Boy, who’d spent a chunk of the day chasing the neighbours’ cattle out of Aunt’s mini-horse paddocks.

“Arrgh! It’s got horns! It’s going to charge the car!!” screeched Magic Man, who has inherited his Great Uncle’s distrust of large livestock.

“Blow the horn!” cried Elf Boy.

“Don’t blow the horn!!” countered his brother.

“My paintwork!” said Mother.

Maybe it was the horns on my radiator grille (Toyota symbol on Mother’s wagon), or perhaps the steely glare I fired at her through the windscreen, but the heifer grudgingly shuffled to the side so I could pass.

All good through the level crossing and past the pub, until we got to a stretch between farms, about halfway to the highway.  It was wettish from the showers, and the usual narrow, patchy, soft shouldered goat track, but conditions were no worse than usual and I know the road pretty well.  Round a gentle bend, four scrub turkeys seemed to be having a union meeting, right on the verge.  Well, that or they’d heard about vultures and thought they’d give it a try – there was a lot of road kill scattered about.

Having learned not to underestimate the ability of the scrub turkey to annoy – and destroy – I slowed down from 80 odd clicks to just over 60 to pass the . . . what’s the collective noun for scrub turkeys: a scraping; a cabal?  I think I’ll go with “devastation”.  Three of the turkey’s high-tailed  it for the paddock, away from my vehicle, but the forth, either braver or much, much stupider than his mates ran out under my wheels.  He fluttered up in a flight attempt that was more like something you’d see from a septuagenarian gymnast trying to relive the glory days.  He achieved just enough of a twisting leap before I hit him full on, that he smacked into the windscreen dead ahead of me.  I hunched down, sure he’d shatter the glass, yanking my right foot back to resist the urge to slam on the brakes on the wet.

The score:  No skid, no screams, not even time for me to curse, no damage to Mother’s car, journey continued without further incident.  And our feathered friend?  According to Magic Man, who watched his dismount through the rear screen, he shook himself to settle his feathers back into place and wandered off, not only unharmed but seemingly unperturbed.

Maybe it was just a random event.  Perhaps this turkey’s turkey was just a very dull example of a species known more for persistence than intelligence.  Or his acquired taste for carrion caused a strain of Mad Bird Disease to express itself in suicidal behaviour.  I can’t escape the gnawing suspicion that we survived a deliberate – hell, orchestrated – plan by Greybeard and his evil minions to wipe out, not only me but all of my offspring and even the Mother who bore me.  Revenge for a certain Medieval Archery Incident of more than a year ago, a vengeance so cold they probably hired Ötzi The Glacier Mummy as a consultant co-conspirator.  Try again, big fella.

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58 Responses

  1. Do you know how much time and money he poured into programming that thing?

    Should have gone with the analogue version.

  2. Hehehe. Agreed – he used to get outstanding results with those clockwork cockroaches.

    I think the major problem, though, was the operating system. These last minute flip-and-fails are typical of Mac. For a kamikaze scrub turkey who’ll deliver first time – PC all the way.

  3. LOL I don’t have a like button on my page. Following you now. You’re funny.

    x,
    Becca

  4. It’s about time we were re-permitted to eat the damned things before they become the planet’s new dominant species!

    • From your pen to God’s slow cooker, Stafford.

  5. ROFL.
    As much as I would love to blame Khan Greybeard for your tribulations, I have seen too many brush turkeys bounce off windscreens and bumpers in my own suburb & simply hop up and carry on to believe that GB is responsible for the Zombie Turkey outbreak.
    Birds are reptiles, and mounding birds are the closest thing to the dinosaurs that you can get.
    I’m sure they’re descended from Raptors, and the only thing they have to worry about is another ice age wiping them out.

  6. Or Stafford with a head of garlic and bottle of red wine.

    Yes, although it’s tempting to blame Greybeard for everything from Alan Jones to the carbon tax, I can’t really see how he could be involved. I mean, non-one knew we’d be up there at that time.

    It was the roadside meeting that I found suspicious. Did they hop off their mounds for a stop work meeting? Maybe working up a boy band for Australia’s Got Talent? I’ve seen juveniles hang in groups but these were fully grown.

  7. Something similar happened to my brother once. He was travelling from Brisbane to Townsville, and encountered a small cluster of crows somewhere outside Toowoomba. Most of the crows shuffled awkwardly to the edge of the scrub. But one crow did the same as your kamikaze zombie turkey, and flew straight into the path of the oncoming grille. Kerthunk! Feathers sprayed everywhere, and as he drove on my brother glanced into his rear view mirror to look for carnage. Nothing. He assumed the spray of feathers was exploding crow, and kept driving.

    A few days later, my mother noticed an unusual (and unpleasant) smell coming from my brother’s car. She did what she would normally do in such a situation – she opened the car, shovelled out the contents, and hosed the whole thing out. No luck. The smell persisted. After two weeks of stench, she demanded that my brother ‘do something’. Two weeks after that, he got sick of her nagging and went in search of the source of the stinky cause of mother’s whines. Guess what he found? A crow. Or, more accurately, half a crow. The undecomposed half. Turns out, the crow he hit outside Toowoomba hadn’t exploded, it had somehow bounced off the road and up under the car, becoming firmly wedged behind the bumper bar.

    He left it there.

    By the way, did I ever tell you my mother is from Gympie? Explains a lot, doesn’t it?

  8. I have relatives from Gympie Catty. I hear you.
    MM, I think that they’ve just been so successful at breeding and there’s so few natural predators that there’s just more birds than mounding space.
    A similar thing happens here, only the toughest and most deranged birds are able to stand their ground and defend their mounds, so I think the other males have nothing to do other than stand around and discuss Alan Jones.
    I think what you saw was the equivalent of a turkey ‘men’s shed’ and the one that dove under your wheels had probably just spent the entire morning wailing to his mates ‘I can’t believe she left me for Bill becoz his mound was bigger than mine. Bill was my best mate. And he stole my woman. After all I’ve done for that bitch. And it’s not like the kids ever call or remember me birfday.’

  9. Hehehe. Love your scenario, Q. Only I reckon he’d be called Boofhead, or Wazza, or The Slurm. You know, one of those bloke names.

    Catty, welcome back! I hope you’ve spent your time away lounging on the new couch eating chocolates. No, wait – riding pillion on the Boss’s new bike in a Suzie Quattro outfit.

    As for the Gympie link, too strange to contemplate. Let’s agree, here and now, never to meet there – unless there’s an Apocalypse or something.

  10. I think I can safely promise you that.
    News Alert: It looks like my gmail account has been hacked & probably used to send spam. Khan GB advised me to change the passwords on my email accounts so you ladies may be wise to do likewise as I’m sure it’s targeting everyone in my inbox.
    the only reason I found it was because I clicked back on ‘history’ to find something and there were a host of messages which I hadn’t sent & no details available as to WTF they were about.

  11. Thanks, Q. I’m safe so far, except for the spam I’ve sent myself.

    See, I keep telling you GB has his uses – and that only some of them are as a ready source of tender protein, if the Tactical Bacon runs out.

  12. mmm….bacon.
    Well, happy news kids.
    The Punch and Judy show next door is leaving town.
    So hopefully I will get more sleep and you will get less whinging.
    I overheard a conversation between Punch & Jesus last night. Punch needed to borrow Jesus’ mop as he doesn’t possess one and they have to clean up their flat if they want any of their bond back. I gather it’s not been cleaned before.
    He said that they were steering the Bogan Bus towards FNQ to go fruit-picking, heading off early this am. (early means before noon).
    The greasy little REA told me they’d been evicted when I spoke to him last weekend but as he also said that he was confident he’d sell Bog Hollow for between 2 – 2.5million I figured he was delusional & best to take all he said with a grain of salt about the size of the rock of Gibraltar.

    A few of the neighbours have been asking me what it’s listed for (I do talk to some of them while I’m out walking the dog) and the Greek family up the road fell around laughing when I told them that. Best laugh they’ve had all week, they said, and they’ve been having a few as their daughter is home celebrating her engagement so the whole clan were there, giggling at Team Slumlord’s folly.
    So.
    the conga line forms behind me, and there is cake. Red Velvet Cake.
    I will make it later on, I promise.
    ‘The bogan bus is leaving, the bogan bus is leaving!’
    Praise the Lord.
    the REA said that Jesus and Mary are next on his Hit List so fingers crossed he means that, too. Apparently its hard to sell a slum if it’s packed to the rafters with noisy born again Christians. Who knew?

  13. Mmm . . . salt.

    I’ve had a thought. Yes, I know – surprised me too. Anyway, why not get some pamphlets about how gloriously Fundamental the Holy Land is, this time of year, and leave it in the Christians’ letter box?

    I’ve heard the conflict dies down over their winter, so you might want to action this one at your earliest convenience.

  14. Tempting, but I think the Palestinians have enough to endure.
    More promising was the news that Jesus has a new job out near Ipswich and as he described it as ‘It’s great but it’s a bit of a long drive’
    So I’m hoping that his new employment suits him and inspires them to relocate to Booval.
    They’d blend in nicely with what lurks in the grocery store out there – and I’m sure there’s a revivalist meeting on every corner to add to the preachings of Pastor Dave – so I’m just hoping that now their bogan buddies are gone and they’re left with all the organic hippies and post-grad students in there (Team Slumlord must have been planning for the sale as it’s not their usual crew) they’ll hark to the call of the Herd and shuffle off someplace where they’ll blend right in.
    Since the REA told me that he had Jesus and Mary in his cross-hairs as well as the bogans, and the bogans are gone, perhaps I can rely on him to send them to the Promised Land.
    Well, the stuff that The Crown offered my grandmother’s family for tenancy when they hopped off the boat and shuffled towards Ippy, anyway.

  15. Hehehe. You equate Booval with The Promised Land, but I’ve live briefly in Ipswich and it was more of a threat than a promise.

    Took the kids the the local pool after some Cricket Clubbing and despite the clear sunshine, I can let you know that it’s Too. Cold. To. Swim. The water was only bracing, but shivering on the edge while they romped on the inflatable was freeeeeezing. Teeth still chattering.

    Brrrrr!

  16. Is it heated?
    I nipped down to the Flood Plain Pool as the local was infested with children playing water polo/intent on thwacking each other to death with a hefty ball.
    curiously, the Flood Plain Pool being a kiddies pool had very few kiddies and lots of adults engaged in the serious process of burning off last night’s pork belly loin & red wine. One of my swimming buddies assured me that this was the first winter that the pool had been warm and the heaters had actually worked consistently. They’re notoriously erratic down there. Not helped by the fact that my GF that runs it claims not to feel the cold the way that normal human beings do.
    So it was just heavenly down there & I feel almost sane again for being back in the water.
    It has been rather chilly here at night, though.
    the other night I insisted on going to bed in two warm layers of clothing & pulled two light dooners and the cat’s fluffy Fairy blanket over me to keep me warm. I was still cold so ordered the Bloke to go find my cashmere beanie. And then I burrowed under as far as I could in order to escape the cold and still inhale life-affirming air.
    He looked at me in disgust and said ‘You look like a bag lady.’
    Who says romance is dead?

    • Ah! The beauty of having an unromantic partner… Regardless of wether I look devastatingly gorgeous, or have been dragged backwards through a scrub turkey’s mound, J NEVER comments 🙂

  17. Well, they say it’s heated, and once you got used to the coldish water it WAS okay to swim in . . . something to do with peripheral vessels constricting, or maybe your brain dissociating as in death by exposure, I suppose. The main problem was the frisky sea breeze on my damp flesh – it’s just across the road from the coast. Instead of a few palm trees along the fence, Council need to get Rapunzel’s landscapers in – nice thorny thicket should put an end to the wind chill factor.

    Unless you were also clutching a bottle of Brandivino in a brown paper bag, stinking of your own excretions – rather than just the cats – and demanding $2 to buy McDonalds, he had nothing to complain about.

    Off to see Madagascar III with the kids later this morning. We like to move it, move it!

  18. Oh no, I wouldn’t do that.
    I’d send HIM out to McDonalds, as I do every Saturday morning, for my double bacon McMuffin.
    One day when we have the BBQ pit installed I will probably be able to make my own as the beep-inducing grease will be free and clear of the household fire detectors.

    MM, I don’t think any amount of shrubbery could keep the arctic winds of the ocean off you at the local pool. We’ve swum at Sandgate pool which has a large mounding bank between it and the swamp as a windbreak, and it’s pretty much freezing out there, too. Lovely in summer when you want the cooling effects of the breeze but a thing to fear in this transitional weather. Which, I might add, I’m thoroughly enjoying. Also the Sounds of Silence from Bog Hollow. Mr. Greasy had a few quiet words to Jesus yesterday which seem to have run to the theme of STFU and stop annoying the world, Or Else. So he has STFU but is compensating with lots of loud coughing and and outpouring of mucous.
    Dontcha just love it when people combine Victimhood with Passive Aggression?
    I’m sure you will have a fabulous time at the movies. I’ve yet to see the Madagascar movies – for some odd reason the bloke wants to put that off till we’ve got a big screen TV.
    Which he apparently needs in order to watch the football, and Disney cartoons.
    go figure.

  19. Agreed.

    I love this season, as long as I’m dry and wearing several layers of warm clothing. It’s so lovely and clear, and the sun isn’t voracious . . . yet.

    For kids movies, the Madagascars have been fun. Dreamworks have excellent production values, the soundtracks rock and there are a few sly asides to keep grown-ups awake. The penguins are my favourite.

    Happy Friday and wish me luck for tomorrow – first cricket match of Magic Man’s season. Scoring. Yay!

  20. Cricket sounds fun. Not. We’ve just been inveigled into enrolling the oldest kidlet into summer soccer. “It’ll be fun!” I was assured. “It’s only $40, you don’t need any special equipment, it’s only for six games because we’re not running any practice sessions, and I’ll drive him there each week for you!”. Stupidly, I believed her, and signed the kidlet up.

    So far:
    *The $40 is actually $65.
    *”No special equipment” doesn’t include uniforms, shoes with moulded studs, team socks and shin pads.
    *Training sessions have now been added because 7 of the 10 team members have never played soccer before.
    *The offer for a lift to games (and training sessions) has been withdrawn due to her boy’s piano lesson schedule conflict.

    Not such a big deal, except that the games are all on Friday nights. That’s the Boss’s drinking night, which means I’ll have to drag the other kidlets along and keep them entertained (and off the field) for two hours, instead of our usual Friday night routine of curling up on the couch with a movie and a bag of chips/packet of Tim Tams/vat of hot chocolate. Also, I’m night blind, which makes night time driving very (very) scary. I had initially said “No” to soccer because of this, but was assured the kidlet would have a lift to every game.

    I’m hoping the kidlet hates it so much that he drops out after one game. Sure, it will then become an expensive mistake, what with all the ‘not special’ equipment, but next time any of the kidlets want to sign up for anything (saxophone lessons, tap dancing classes, modelling, archery….), I can wave the hardly-used shin pads around while cackling uncontrollably. The NO FKN WAY! will be implied, I think. Or I hope… I do have a tendency to cackle uncontrollably, so maybe not.

    Incidentally, Madam, you have inadvertently cursed me. I took the kidlets to the barber for their holiday haircuts, and I asked him for a trim while I was there. He didn’t give me a trim. He gave me a Suzie Quatro haircut. Seriously. It’s just as well I already have leather pants and a bass guitar, as I wouldn’t have been able to afford them thanks to all that not-special soccer crap.

    Well, the holidays are almost over. I’m taking the kidlets to their grandma’s house for a visit today. The cousins are also there. The horrible, bossy, violent, loud, nasty little cousins. As I still have this stupid migraine, I was tempted to use the “sorry, can’t come, dental appointment” excuse, but we went to the dentist last week – and they know it. *sigh*… I’m just going to have to stock up on bandages, tissues and vodka, and suck it up.

  21. Oh, poor Catty. I so feel your pain. Not because of the Suzi Q cut, she still rocks and I’m sure you look awesome.

    No, because of the loss of Friday Family Video Night. We, too, have a similar comforting ritual . . . in the cricket off-season. In the on, every Friday night Elf Boy will have a pee-wee match, and every second Friday that match will be followed by me having to run the canteen for eight teams of U10s. This year, I have to do everything (inventory, shopping, delivery, unloading, food prep, serving, et-bloody-cetera), as opposed to the previous seasons you’ve all been so kind as to support me through when the President did most of the behind-the-scenes stuff.

    Look at it this way – your torture will only last 1 to 6 weeks. Mine continues until March next year some time.

    Cheers!

  22. And once again you guys are making my life choices seem eminently sensible, even though the cat DID piss on the cushions again.
    Bastardry, pure and simple.

  23. See ?!

    It’s been years since one of my kids pissed on a soft furnishing – unlike cats, at least they grow out of that one.

    Isn’t there some sort of pheromone spray you can use to stop them from, erm, spraying Q?

  24. They only do it when the bloke goes away and yes, I’ve got the feliway humidifier thing in the rooms where it’s likely to happen. My solution to them getting stressed and anxious when he’s away would be for his boss to rent him a hotel in FNQ where he can take the cats.

  25. Soon he’ll be able to telecommute, or send a hologram, or have a robot wrangle with the unions for him, I suppose. It won’t be a problem for long.

    Well, I’m snatching a last minute of sanity – hehehe, strange I should do that here – before dragging myself and weasels off to MM’s first match of the season.

    I feel like a French Aristo off to a date with Madame le Guillotine, but my demise will be dragged out over the entire stinking humid Queensland summer.

    *sigh*

    You’re right – should have got cats, instead. Even on “I Can Haz Cheezeburger” I’ve never seen a cat play cricket.

  26. Cricket is the most boring game in the world. (Except, possibly, golf.) I think cricket would be a perfect game for cats, what with all the standing around playing with their crotches, then batting at a ball every hour or so. But when the drinks trolley came out, they’d have to bring saucers of milk instead of Red Bull.

    Poor Quokka. Stressed cats are not fun. Have you considered making a life sized doll with the Bloke’s face? If you dress it in his clothes and prop it on the couch, the cats will think he’s still there. And as an added bonus, you can stick pins in it when you’re pissed off at him.

    Hey, that might work for you too, Madam. A couple of boy-sized cutouts on the field, and one of you at the scoring board, and nobody will even notice.

    Did I mention that I think cricket is the most boring game in the world?

  27. I’m thinking of installing CCTV in his office and playing it via skype into their enclosure so that they can watch what he’s doing all day.
    I know this sounds nuts but I think what really stresses them is watching him pack his bag.
    Cats HATE it when you break out the luggage bags.

  28. You know what cats do love, though? Bondage, apparently.

    Our darling “inside only” cats have been getting outdoors, which is okay because they come in to be fed at around 4 p.m. and then I keep them quarantined overnight . . . or it was, until they started killing birds. On advice from Uncle I purchased a cat harness with a bell on the back.

    Flot wouldn’t even wear a conventional collar, but he purred as I put it on him and has kept it on for three days in which time he’s not managed to kill a single bird. I swear he prances around feeling proud of himself in it.

    Styling up.

  29. Uncle RV is a genius.
    Those two were constantly getting their collars off when they were here in my care. Regular little houdinis, those monsters. We have a harness here leftover from a previous cat, who we used to escort around the garden for Outside Time. Luckily the current batch are happy to wear collars, I think because the boys like their faux pearl studs and the girl likes her gold & diamantes. Thank God cats can’t tell real diamonds from rhinestones or I’d be in a whole world of cat shit.
    Catty I like your cardboard cutout cricket idea. Is it OK if I use them for my archery practice? Sounds so much less messy than practicing on the real thing, and hiding in the bushes so I don’t get busted is simply hell on my knees, these days.
    Congrats on getting Comment of the Day for the 1st World Problems, too, BTW. Waiter, hand that woman a Cosmo Slurpie. With a tim-tam straw. She’s earned it.
    All kidding aside, we are about to make Cosmo Slurpies to go with the curry for dinner – we made Sex on the Beach out of Frozen Zombie Brains last night and the frozen zombie OTB mix gave it the most fabulous texture.
    We’re raising a toast to our DA making it out of the 4 week long neighbours’ complaint appeal process without attracting the ire of any of the deranged loons that live either side of us. Even better, there was another open house at Bog Hollow today and it looks like its’ attracting more interest from people who want somewhere to live while their spotty little teen is enrolled at some snotty local school than investors – the investors are turning up, turning their noses up, and hightailing it out of here. I’m hoping for a nice plastic surgeon with a bronzed trophy wife cloned straight from Brynne Edelstein’s butt cheeks and three children in desperate need of psychotherapy and years of expensive orthodonture.
    All of which would be a huge improvement on the Irish.
    Beyargh and Begorrah, by Aisling.
    Lest We Forget.

  30. You could get more than three children out of Brynne’s butt cheeks, bless her.

    Warning: Rant Ahead
    Okay, I’m the only arm of this triumvirate with any appreciation for summer’s finest game, but just on general principles . . .
    Please explain why, oh why – after I’d already spent at least six hours this week getting the clubhouse and canteen ready for the season – when it came to scoring the U12’s opening match yesterday I had to do it by myself? For four freaking hours.

    Sorry, it’s just that these people lounging in the shade playing with their iPhones – after a busy week spent lounging around the office playing with their iPhones – smurf me to tears.

    Some consolation though. Four hags charming ladies from the opposition were hanging around the scorer’s table braying about crap while we were trying to concentrate. Without even turning around to look at them I said, “Ladies, I love eBay too. But can you go and talk somewhere else? We’re trying to concentrate.” They went. Not often you get to tell Trophy Wife Yummy Mummies from Noosa to smurf off.

    Job interview on Tuesday: Catty, kindly pray for me; Quokka, you’ve got a black rooster and you know what to do with it.

  31. No worries. Just give me their address and I’ll ensure the head is on the CEO’s desk an hour before your interview.
    Er…assuming you want her to cancel and bolt to the pub for hysterics, yes?

  32. You haven’t heard about the proposed cuts to Parenting Payment, obviously. Come January the first, we’ll go from hovering around the poverty line to diving well below it.

    I’d work for Gaddafi if he was alive . . . hell, I’d work for Zombie Gaddafi.

  33. Isn’t Zombie Gaddafi currently running the Sunshine State?
    How was cricket, MM? I’d neglected to mention your woes to the bloke and as we passed field after field of scorched earth with wilting cricket players he rolled his eyes and said ‘How barbaric. WTF are they thinking, playing cricket in this weather when it’s a sport designed for the English Summer?’
    You have his heartfelt sympathies.
    And we shall cross our fingers and toes, and the roosters eyes and tail feathers, in a portent of good luck for your interview.

  34. Hehehe. You should tweet that Gaddafi line.

    Yes, we talked to the coach and decided we might elect to field first if we win the toss. That way only two players at a time will be parcooked on the pitch, as we stagger towards the midday sun in Queensland.

    A 6 o’clock start would be ideal, so they were all done by 10 a.m – but not everyone is as early a riser as I, plus sometimes the fields are a bit remote.

    I’m very pro the boys participating in a team sport, though, and cricket is much more civilised than any of the footballs.

    How’s poor old Buckethead? Has he been released from durance vile, yet?

    • For civilised team sport you can’t go past basketball. It’s (allegedly) non-contact, and best of all it’s INDOORS!!!! You’ll still have the same problems with parents who refuse to learn to score, but hey, at least it’s INDOORS!!! And they cancel when it’s too hot, or when the roof of the shed leaks during midsummer downpours. It also only goes for about an hour, unless your kids end up like The Brat and have a bit of talent. Then you’re looking at 5 to 6 nights of training and games for club and rep teams. Not really a problem for you at your boys’ ages I don’t think.

  35. Eh? Oh you must mean the cat. Buckets do rotation on the heads of our animals depending on Degree of Idiocy & Degree of Villainy.
    Both are rather high.
    He’s good,and is now bucketless. He just needs a few days after his summer hair cut to stop obsessing. All my cats lean towards OCD, apparently it goes with the breed. They’re designed to be outdoors, huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ like everyone else in the village where they came from.
    And I’m still purring because we nipped out to Milany (that gelato place on racecourse road) and sampled the most fabulous orange and raspberry gelato.
    There’s a pic on my twitter feed if you want to take a peek.
    the menu looks like it’s designed to appeal to children, so we were going to suggest you take the Weasels there sometime as a treat. Assuming you are always on the lookout for new Incentives for your parental bribery strategic survival kit.

  36. I read about the Jan 1st PPS cancellation in an online newspaper. My response in their comments section was along the lines of “What can you expect from a PM who not only has never had to raise a child, but who also passes her living expenses (power, transport, food, etc) on to the taxpayer?” I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – no politician should be allowed to take office unless they have spent a year on the dole. In Blacktown.

    Meanwhile, the countdown is on for summer soccer this Friday…. ugh… but the countdown is over for Back To School. Yay! I am gleefully stuffing soggy sandwiches and bruised apples into musty lunchboxes, while cramming hats and shoes onto still-sleeping kidlets. The joy, the unmitigated joy! Pass me one of those frozen Zombie OTB’s, Quokka. I think I should like to form a conga line up to the school. Got your conga knickers on, Madam?

    Speaking of knickers, good luck with the interview. I hope you get the job – unless you’d prefer us (‘Us’ being me, Quokka and the rooster) to pop around and convince the cricket committee that they should be paying you at least $30 per hour, cash in hand, for your currently unpaid 10 hours a week heavy labour. Yeah, I know you’re worth more, but there’s only so much two women can do with a rooster, even when one of those women is Quokka.

  37. yeah, speaking of which I’m having trouble catching it, so if one of you would send your kids up the back yard to stop it running around that would be great.
    Just make sure they’re not wearing white.
    The head’s on a spike out the front draining till you need it.

  38. As you know, I never have my knickers on, Catty – but I’m always ready to party.

    Speaking of which, forgive the late sketchy response but the Plumber’s got the day off. Normal transmissions will resume when I’ve finished having my way with him, and kick him out.

  39. Why are you kicking him out? Can’t you just lock him in the shed with Alfonse and the chicken feed? That way he’ll be available whenever you want.

  40. Hehehe.

    He comes when I want now – but I don’t have to throw in bread crusts, fill his water bucket or hose him out.

  41. Catty has a good point though.
    The axe is in the shed and the chopping block’s right beside it.
    Handy.

  42. Poor Plumber. We don’t want to chop anything off him, as yet – he’s still on my good side.

    Well, I ended up having two interviews today. Almost as soon as I stepped out of the first one another one rang for an initial phone interview. I feel like that guy in “A Chorus Line” – “God, I hope I get it, I hope I get it . . .”

    And in other news, I seem to have acquired a new stawker – the dude who manages the bar at the Cricket Club. Who should I send around to set him straight – the karate dojo, or the Plumber?

  43. Havsy.
    He’s got a pea plague in his garden that he’s looking to avoid, & he’s always thirsty.

  44. Lock him in the shed. The more, the merrier.

  45. I’m going to need a bigger shed.

  46. Oh noes, you don’t want to do that.
    then they’ll invite their friends over and you’ll discover adds in the local bars advertising ‘mens shed at Morganas’.
    they’ll throw out your chicken feed to make room for their cartons of beer and SSRIs.
    Urk.

  47. We’ve got a customer who runs a Men’s Shed. There’s a lot of welding and muffin baking goes on, apparently. Possibly not with the same tools.

  48. I’m sure they use the same ingredients.
    Hey MM, did I tell you about the kiddy desserts they do at the Milany gelateria at racecourse road?
    they make spaghetti out of gelati.
    I have to go back and try it.
    How freaking cool would it be if you were a kid with a bowl of hazelnut gelati spaghetti & faux gelati meatballs in front of you?
    We definitely have to go there next time you are in town so we can sample the delights.
    I hear the Melbourne people groaning, but ladies – you have good Italian mob food on easy access down there.
    I’m trying to persuade the bloke that we need a weekend in Melbourne very, very soon.

  49. Really? That sounds absolutely awesome. They’d be as happy as weasels on Eccys.

    Actually, the chances of us coming down some time before next winter have improved. Owing to a series of stuff-ups – not the Committee’s for a change, I’m proud to report – we have far too many boys signed up for U12s. We’ve decided to go ahead with 16 players and take turns having a weekend off – so as soon as I can teach some of those other lazy bastards how to score, we’ll be able to come down for the odd weekend.

    All of a sudden, I feel better about summer.

  50. Same here. I just had an email to say that Friday night’s soccer game is a bye. As in, Bye soccer. Hellooooooo couch!

  51. Now you’ll have to sell all that crap on e-bay, Catty. How long do you have to dangle a once-used jock-strap over there before you fish out an overfed troll?

    Good to hear it MM. Start manipulating the unwary soon so you can wangle some time off. You deserve some fun.

  52. I had some fun, earlier in the week, Q. Paying for it now, though – have to chauffeur MM up and down Mt Tinbeerwah so he can be “gifted and talented”. Still, nice to see smart kids getting a look in – 99.5% of school seems to be aimed at the dull and unmanageable.

    Catty, I doubt you’ve got much soccer equipment left, have you? The Sock Monster will eat jocks and shin guards just as readily as his usual staples, around here anyway.

  53. Hope your interviews went well. will pop back in soon for updates.

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