Anyone For Tennis?

No doubt everyone is aware by now that the Australian Tennis Open is currently being played in Melbourne. It's been very exciting to watch. I wake bleary-eyed every morning with every muscle in my body aching from all the activity and energy I'm exerting.

On the subject of sport, I never excelled at anything, really. I hated running at school. A friend and I used to take it in turns who would come last, or we would hide in the locker room until the race was over. I played basketball in high school and managed to represent my school in a trip to Maryborough and continued playing for a short while after I began working. I gave up basketball to take up surfing, body and board, because my every weekend was spent at the coast. Years later, when I lived in Noosa, I took up golf and thoroughly enjoyed it, not disgracing myself on the course. I continued swimming and surfing throughout the years but when it came to tennis, I was absolutely hopeless. I love the game, watching it, but when it comes to playing tennis, my dire limitations are obvious to anyone and everyone who dares to watch. I have two speeds. I either miss the ball entirely or if I do manage to hit it, the ball flies high over the surrounding fence, soars above the buildings next door into the street beyond never to be seen again! No skyscraper is safe when I'm in full flight! As a child, I had a couple of tennis lessons, but the coach shook his head, defeated and suggested I take up disc-throwing instead. My bludgeoning tennis career was brought to a rapid end.

In Noosa, during the time I lived there, the Ken Rosewall Tennis Courts on Noosa Sound were very popular amongst the tanned, fit locals. I'm not sure if the courts are still operating. I guess they are. A "Round-Robin" competition was organised. A friend and I decided to enter. Her capabilities as a tennis player were slightly, only slightly, above mine, but we thought it would be a bit of fun. At the very least, in the ensuing years we could brag that we'd been in an "Round-Robin" event on the Ken Rosewall courts. Ken Rosewall, for those of you who are unaware, was a champion Australia tennis player in years gone by.

I was married at the time. My husband, who had never seen me play tennis or even show any interest in playing tennis, said to me in stunned amazement.

"But, honey...you don't play tennis. You've never played tennis!"

Those few words stirred my competitive spirit!

"I've had a couple of games," I retorted. "Penny doesn't play either, but we're going to enter for the fun of it! Who cares if we're in 'Z-grade'!" I added indignantly.

The day of the tournament quickly arrived, allowing us no time to practice. Well, to be honest, we would have needed a lifetime of practice under the expert guidance of Federer, but I won't elaborate on that small point. We donned our shorts, t-shirts and caps, hired racquets and definitely looked the part. It was at this stage that any similarity between tennis players and us ceased.

Because of our 'high' ranking, we were up first to play. Within minutes, it was 'game, set, match'. I think the spectators believed Penny and I were the warm-up comedy act. We said nothing to dispel their belief. With our racquets under our arms, our heads held high, we walked off the court acknowledging our adoring fans. Hastily, Penny and I made it around the corner of a building, where, out of sight of our adoring fans, we collapsed in hysterical laughter.

It was at that very moment, an epiphany came to me. The time was nigh to hang up my racquet. If it meant disappointing my adoring fans, so be it. "Epiphany" had spoken.

It Never Rains But It Pours!

Look at all that wonderful water! Put this, plus all the water flushing out the Todd River in Alice Springs (thanks, Peter) at present and the dams in south-east Queensland would look like dams once again, not dry, barren wastes.

Of course, what we need are a couple of cyclones (minus the devastation) to push down the monsoonal trough, thereby causing a decent wet season. It would probably take three good lows (cyclones) to break the drought, to cause enough run-off to fill the dams and also top up the aquifers. Three decent rain depressions, spaced over a period of a couple of months would be a blessing. You wouldn't hear me complain about mildew. A few of bottles of bleach soon fixes that! After being faced with blackened walls in the cabins on Newry Island after Cyclone Joy dumped nigh on four week's continuous, heavy rain on me, what's a bit of mildew and mould between friends? I related part of the story of Cyclone Joy's visit to Newry Island in a previous post.

The day the rain stopped, my two cats at the time, Pushkin and Rimsky, accompanied me on a walk along the beach, scampering ahead of me. In unison, they would screech to a stop, then race back to me as if urging me to join in the fun. That wasn't so bad but when they began running up and down the coconut palms and she-oaks, I declined their kind offers.

During the fury of the cyclone, with the help of my male guests, I secured the huge fuel barge high up on the beach well above the sea's normal high-water mark. The last thing I needed was to lose the barge to an angry ocean. Once the rain ceased, I had a small window of opportunity to float the barge back to its usual mooring with the onset of the king tides.

After an energetic walk along the beach, I climbed on to the barge, where I sat for a while reflecting over the events of the past weeks since Cyclone Joy's arrival on Christmas Day, and contemplated my next steps. Looking out over a finally calm, still ocean, Pushkin and Rimsky joined me, sitting quietly beside me, staring into space. They, too, were a little shell-shocked in the aftermath of the cyclone and rain depression that followed.

If only we would get three weeks of solid rain now. What a blessing it would be. By 'we', I mean all the drought-affected areas in this fine country.

Dedicated to My Two Furry Rascals And All My Past Furry Mates!

Life would not be the same without my two best mates. They're never far from my side. All through my life I've either had one cat or two. My first cat, named "Socksie" was adorable. Here is the story of my first love.

My earliest recollections of my childhood extend back to an era when, even if briefly, life was simple, uncomplicated and happy. The way life is supposed to be for a young child. Sheltered from turmoils and hardships, I was allowed to run free within the safety of the boundaries set.

My mother, grandmother, older brother and I lived in premises attached to a little grocery store, in a seaside area east of Mackay. My mother had remarried. Our stepfather was also part of the equation. I felt no warmth towards him. Rarely did I encourage his attention nor did I venture to reach out to him. He was a violent man who harboured darkness in his soul. Truthfully, in reflection, I don't believe I was fearful of him. With the candour of a small child, I simply did not like him.

The store, situated close to the beach, catered to locals and regular day-trippers who came to enjoy the pleasures of the seaside. Laughter and eager chatter filled the air as folk, in brightly coloured clothes, sat under the pergola at tables adorned in crisp red and white gingham tablecloths. Bougainvillea decoratively draped itself over weather-beaten lattice. The aroma of sandwiches freshly prepared from warm bread filled the air. Each morning, I stood on tiptoes straining my small body to see above the edge of the table, as my mother prepared snacks for the hungry patrons. In eager anticipation, I watched as she cut the crusts from the bread. The crunchy tidbits bore remnants of the tasty filling of the sandwiches. These mouth-watering morsels became my special treat day after day. In my childish mind, I thought I was helping in my own small way as I hovered around my mother.

I was an extremely quiet, shy little girl. No other children lived close by with whom I could play. My timid observations of the comings and going of our daily visitors filled my days. I conducted my spying from afar. Always anxiously alert, fearful someone would see or speak to me. If such an unfortunate occurrence did eventuate, I rarely answered before I scampered back to the safety of the kitchen. However, I did have one friend. I rarely spoke to him, either. Nearby, in a run-down house, lived an elderly gentleman, his skin tanned and as tough as leather from years spent in the sun. Private and reclusive, he lived alone. An air of mystery surrounded him or so it appeared to me in my innocence. Strangely, I didn't fear him. Going against character, I felt kindly towards him. Cheerfully but meekly, I would visit him every other day, delivering his bread, milk and other minor provisions. Gingerly, I would approach him with my arms wrapped tightly around his supplies. Always he greeted me with a smile and a gentle word. My visits were brief. I wasted little time in handing him his goods before turning to scurry back home. My friend’s name was Mr Meagher. Each day he would swim in the sea. He would float, bent over with his face below the water for minutes at a time. He reminded me of a huge brown turtle.

Although I had no friends of my own age, I wasn’t lonely. With the ocean nearby, I spent many hours in the cool, calm waters or played along the beach, collecting shells and chasing the hordes of Soldier Crabs. Fortunately, I learned to swim at an early age. Because of this, I wasn't a worry to my mother or to my grandmother. My brother spent little time with me, as he was almost three years older than I. Being a girl, I compounded the problem. Often he became impatient with me, storming off in boyish disgust. He had already commenced school. He had his own group of friends, which, of course, excluded girls. Alone, in my own world, I dwelt, playing with my dolls. They were the only company I needed, I thought, until one wondrous day.

Excitement overcame me the day I was given my first pet. He was fluffy, furry and bright of eye. A beautiful grey and white tabby kitten was to become my new friend. I was smitten immediately. He was beautiful. He was mine. His four paws were snow white. To me, it appeared he wore socks. I named him “Socksie”. Socksie and I bonded instantly. Constantly, we were together. Every day new games were invented. I talked to him, petted and cuddled him constantly. We had tea parties wherein I discussed with him the day’s events. Socksie knew I would never, could never hurt him. How could I? I absolutely adored him. My small world was complete. I required nothing nor did I need anybody else to fill my heart with the love I felt for him. I was so proud. My doll family was ignored as I lavished my devoted attention on my kitten. I dressed him in their clothes, taking him for walks in my doll’s pram on sightseeing tours of my small oasis. He understood my words or so I believed. Calmly, he would lie watching my every move. Socksie had infinite patience to indulge a little girl her fantasies.

Each night I prepared a bed for him in my doll’s cot, plumping up the pillow, turning down the sheets and covers as I had watched my mother do for me. Tenderly I would place him in his bed, crooning a bedtime lullaby whilst patting him to sleep. Contented, I would go to my own bed with the knowledge that my dear friend was secure for the evening. Dreams of the adventures we would share the following days filled my nights. Unknown to me, as soon as I was tucked safely in my bed and fast asleep, he would stretch himself and spring out of his cosy cot to go adventuring on his own under the cloak of darkness. In his infinite cat wisdom, he understood the simple desires of his little mistress. Always he waited until I was asleep.

Great changes came. The shop was sold. We were moving to another town far away. The days became busy with the packing of cases, the moving of furniture. The air was alive with excitement and the thrill of adventure. A long train journey was ahead. Distance meant little to me, but I knew by the frenzied activity around me that the coming days held mystery and wonderment. My dolls were packed away in cartons. I had lengthy discussions with Socksie, informing him of what was to come. He, too, was in awe by the energy around him. A special box was in readiness for his train journey. The long-awaited day dawned. Late one night, we bundled into a taxi to be driven to the rail station. Arriving at the busy station, crowds of people milled, chatting excitedly as they waited to embark. I watched as Socksie was lifted from the taxi by my stepfather, who I decided there and then, knew nothing about cats by the way he roughly handled the cat box that was to be Socksie’s home for the duration of the train trip. Gathering my beloved friend under his arm, he headed towards the station platform. Poor Socksie was crying loudly, unaccustomed and frightened as I was from the foreign noises and strange people around us. I understood his fear. The herding people, the weird odours that permeated that odd place caused him panic. My heart cried out to him. How I wished I could hold him just for a short while to let him know I was there by his side.

The time had arrived to board the train. I looked down the platform to where my stepfather stood. Suddenly, to my amazed horror, I saw him purposely open the box. Within a split second, Socksie fled. I stood transfixed. My mouth was open but I couldn't utter a sound. Silently, I stared, as tears streamed down my face. Nothing around me appeared real. Time froze. I stood paralysed on the station platform. Totally powerless, I was unable to save my beloved pet. Finally, finding my voice, I screamed out to Socksie but he was gone. What could a small child do? I was bewildered, shattered and nobody could help me. I turned. Looking towards where my stepfather stood, I noticed a sneer on his face. I hated him for his heartlessness and cruelty. That night I experienced my first heartbreak...the loss of my first love, Socksie. And I've never forgotten him, nor that horrible night.

Fun acrylic "Feeling Groovy" and graphite drawing "Curiosity Didn't Kill The Cat" painted and drawn by me.

Hola!

The aroma of Mexico is floating through my cabin this morning. I soaked a whole packet of dried red kidney beans overnight. Presently, they're cooking in a huge pot with finely chopped onions, garlic, celery, red capsicum/peppers, cherry tomatoes from my garden, canned Roma tomatoes, fresh herbs, again from my garden, tomato paste, powdered chicken stock, a pinch of dried chillies, again from my garden, coriander/cilantro, a couple of teaspoons of raw sugar and freshly ground black pepper. I couldn't see any point to preparing a small quantity. My intentions are to have tacos, tortillas or nachos over this weekend, whichever one takes my fancy when starvation kicks in. The balance of the beans, I'll freeze in meal-size quantities for devouring later.

Other than preparing the beans, I've done little this morning. With all this tennis going on here at the moment, my nights are very active and lengthy! The quarter-read Saturday paper is still spread over my bed that I've not yet. made. One cat's on the roof, running to the guttering, poking his head over, meowing every time I venture out the back door. My other cat is inside here with me, sleeping. I did a quick dash to the supermarket again this morning as I wanted more peaches. They're on special this week. I ate most of my stock purchased yesterday watching the tennis last night until an ungodly hour. Very tasty and tempting they are, so I needed to refill my stores. I eat lots of fruit. The only difference between me and a fruit bat is I don't sleep upside down, hanging by my ankles. And that is debatable at times, particularly on a day like today when I have a friend urging me by email to pop open a bottle of wine to assist her in celebrating her birthday! As if I need any excuse! The sun's has almost reached the yard-arm. It looks like I'll have to concede and hand her the victory medal for the day. Excuse me while I pop the cork from this bottle!

Grab Your Coffee...Sit Back...Relax And Enjoy the Ride....

To my mind, the months of April and May are amongst the best times to be in the tropical areas of North Queensland. Skies of azure, unblemished by clouds other than perhaps flimsy wisps of almost transparent gossamer. An ocean so calm it looks like a floor constructed of glass. One glorious day as described, I flew by light aircraft, a four-seater, to the mouth of the Hull River, north of Tully. We flew low over the Family Group of Islands, which includes Bedarra and Dunk Islands. The ocean bed, clearly visible below appeared to have only six inches of water covering it, so crystal-clear was the sea.

It was in April, whether by coincidence, luck, fate or a bit of each, a group of guests arrived to the island by sea-plane. They were strangers to each other, except for one couple (who weren't really a 'couple'), Tim and Susie. Equally, of course, they were strangers to me when they first set foot on the island, a situation soon to be rectified.

Gaby, a thirty-something, career-driven lass from Sydney alighted first, looking a little stressed. Tim and Susie settled themselves eagerly into the punt that picked up the guests from the sea-plane. Gingerly, a tall, timid-looking fellow, Dennis, stepped into the punt, with the help my guiding arm. He set himself apart from the rest of us. This was to be his wont for the next couple days and nights we were to discover...until, that is, combined, we broke his resolve!,

After the 'greet-and-meet', something I did with all guests upon their arrival, whether by boat or sea- plane, the new guests were escorted to their respective cabins. All cabins were occupied after the arrival of this interesting-looking group, about 32 guests in total from memory. Remember, only 15 cabins were privately hidden amongst the foliage along the beach-front at that time. Nowadays, the amount has doubled. To recap, the resort at Cape Richards on Hinchinbrook Island covers only 22 acres of the total 245 square miles of the island. The rest of the island is a national park in care of the National Parks and Wildlife Department.

I didn't set eyes upon the new group of 'islanders' until pre-dinner drinks around the bar that first evening. After mingling with the guests at the bar as I always did, I joined my new guests at their table for dinner. Dennis, dressed in a vibrant lime-green shirt, once again set himself apart from everyone else, choosing to sit alone at a table in a corner. This was not to be...I treated all my dinner guests as if they were guests in my own home...the restaurant area was my dining room. I coerced and cajoled at length, finally breaking down his reserve. He joined me at the table with the rest of the new-comers. Well, that was the beginning of a most wonderful, fun-filled, insane, crazy week!

Tim, a journalist with a well-respected financial magazine in this country, the "The Bulletin", was highly intelligent, gentle, quiet and extremely humorous. Susie, who worked in advertising, from memory, was as bright as the shiniest button, a little avant-garde...well, a wee bit more that 'a little', and dressed accordingly. Both were from Melbourne. Gaby, the stressed career girl soon shed her 'city' worries, settling quickly into the island spirit. Gaby was from Sydney. Dennis, also from Melbourne...well....Dennis, shy, seemingly without humour, studious, silent unless urged to utter a word or two, sat amongst this motley crew of degenerates, which included me, not knowing which way to look. Unsuccessfully, he tried to escape our evil clutches each following evening! Dennis, as I discovered later, was using his holiday on the island as a time to consider his future. He had been offered a post at Oxford University.

Sun-filled, warm not hot days and balmy, playful nights followed. Dennis tried his utmost to distance himself from the 'group' but none of us would allow this to happen. After our first night of hilarity, he sat at another table with other guests, trying to remain invisible! How could he? His lime-green shirt let him down every time! Yes...he lived in that shirt! We came to the conclusion it was the only shirt he had brought with him. It was obviously his favourite shirt because wherever he went the shirt was sure to follow! By the fourth night, he realised he couldn't fight us any longer, so he gave in and rejoined our madcap activities. It was the best thing that could have happened to this 40 year-old bachelor! We certainly opened up his vistas! The rest of the group were in their early thirties.

I always mingled with my guests but never to the extent that I did with this particular group. We all 'clicked' for whatever reason. Our personalities, views on life, our senses of humour, our characters all melded. We bonded. We were a bit like the "Famous Five" out of Enid Blyton books, but much more wicked! And once Dennis learned how to relax, he let his guard down more than he ever had done in his past, I'm sure. He went with the 'flow'. He enjoyed himself as he never believed he could have. The lime-green shirt went wherever he went. I'm sure he slept in it! One day while he was out swimming in the ocean, Susie, Gaby and I stole and hid the damn thing, much to his despair!

It was Thursday afternoon around four-fifteen. I was in my office doing some paper work, when the lime-green shirt, and Dennis, appeared at the door.

"Come on!" He said.

"Where?" I replied.

"I'm taking you out in the canoe!" He spluttered excitedly.

"The canoe! I've never been in a canoe in my life! Have you?" I laughed. "I can't...I've got work to do!"

"No...I've never been in a canoe, either...but today is the day! Come on! 'No' is not an answer I will accept!"

"Oh! My God! What am I letting myself into!" I exclaimed as he dragged me bodily from my office.

Down to the little beach beside the jetty we went with much gaiety, me, protesting, laughing all the way.

At that point in my life, I had never before rowed anything, let alone paddled a canoe!

Like Pocahontas and Hiawatha off the two of us went, unstably! Dennis was like a person driven, driven from some inner demon of a hidden, long-forgotten sense of the ridiculous. We talked. We laughed and we giggled like two school children. When he was paddling one way, I paddled the other. Somehow, even with our lack of expertise at paddling we soon were approaching the bend leading towards Macushla Beach, both of us drenched from tears of laughter and from sea water!

"We have to turn around and go back, Dennis! I've got to race home and get changed for the restaurant!" The sun was now on its descent beyond the mountains behind Cardwell on the mainland.

As we struggled on our return trip, Johnno, my barman I wrote about in a previous post, was at the end of the jetty in the distance. He spotted us. I called out to him to come and rescue us. Jumping into the island boat, a yellow Abalone, which my staff had named "Lady of the Island" in my honour, Johnno came to our rescue like a knight of days of old. He towed us back to the jetty, making our return journey much quicker if we had been left to our own devices...thank goodness! It was a fun finale to our equally fun excursion! Our spontaneous adventure was the main topic of conversation over dinner that evening.

Dennis's time on the island came to an end on the Friday. He planned leaving on the island Reef Cat in the afternoon, catching a Greyhound coach at Cardwell, en route further north to spend a couple of days in Cairns. He was the focus of our attention on his final night. Gaby, Susie, Tim and I threatened we would all book into an adjoining room at the hotel in which he would be staying at Cairns. How dare he escape from the 'group'! One could tell by the look on his face he wasn't sure whether to believe us or not! We weren't going to let him get away that easily! He left as planned the following afternoon, amongst much joviality, mingled with a little sadness. Dennis was a changed person to the one who had arrived a few days earlier. His decision had been made during all the crazy fun and games and, also during his quiet walks, lost in his own thoughts, along the beach or through the rainforest to adjacent beaches. He decided to accept the Oxford University posting. To my surprise, when I arrived back at my office after farewelling Dennis, on my desk was a parcel wrapped in paper. Upon opening it, I let out a loud laugh. It was the infamous lime-green shirt! Dennis had bequeathed it to me! When Susie, Tim and Gaby arrived at the bar that evening, I called them into my office. I had a crazy plan!

I knew the hotel Dennis would be staying in, in Cairns. I also knew the time of his arrival. So I gathered my gang around the phone and made a call! As Dennis answered the phone in his hotel room, we all shouted out..."Open your door, Dennis! We're right outside! We couldn't do without you, so we've come up to join you!" There was a moment's silence from his end of the phone. Today, still, I'm not sure if it was from horror at the prospect!

The week drew to a close. Saturday morning raised it's ugly head all too soon. Tim, Susie and Gaby, my new, crazy, kindred spirits were leaving on the 1pm sea-plane back to mainland 'sanity'. They wandered down to the restaurant forlornly. I was in my office feeling similar emotions. It was crazy. We'd only known each other for a week, but we had shared such wonderful moments.

I never invited guests to my home (only twice I did so...the other time was one night I had Derryn Hinch, Jackie and Jackie's son, Dylan to dinner during the week they stayed on Hinchinbrook)....my little house on the island was my sanctuary...my escape and I protected my privacy. However, that morning, it seemed the right thing to do. I invited my 'partners-in-crime' to my home for coffee as there was time before the planes' arrival and their departure. We certainly were a maudlin mob! All the laughter we'd shared the past week had evaporated.

Tears were shed, not only by us girls. I noticed moisture glistening in Tim's eyes, too. Never will I be convinced he had something in his eye! The farewells were sad, but mingled with the sadness were glorious, happy memories of a time well spent.

Susie, as she stepped from the jetty into the punt (normally, I joined the guests in the punt, but this day, purposely, I didn't) that was to take them to the sea-plane, turned her face up towards me and said...."There is something waiting for you when you get back to your house...have a look out on the deck." With those words, she smiled and waved. I waited at the end of the jetty until the sea-plane lifted itself out of the water to commence its flight over the island, south to Townsville. Feeling despondent, I strolled slowly back to my house, thoughts of the past week sifting through my mind. I walked out on my deck as instructed by Susie, and there, hanging on a fine thread from a beam on the ocean side was a crystal. It sparkled brilliantly in the sunshine, reflecting the sun's glittering rays upon the sapphire sea out front. Final tears flowed, then a wistful mellow contentment settled throughout my being. That week, full of unexpected surprises, has remained firmly entrenched in my file of "fond memories". I'm sure the others feel the same way, even though we have since lost contact with each other. I did, however, visit each one of them, during my trips to Sydney and Melbourne after their visit. I had dinner in Melbourne with Dennis the week before he left for England and his tenure at Oxford.

As a finale to this lengthy tale....I was aware that Dennis, when he left Cairns, was boarding another Greyhound Coach south to Townsville airport for his flight back to Melbourne. Forever the clown and prankster, I organised with a friend in Cardwell to purchase some lime-green poster-board. I had her print on the bright cardboard, in very large, black letters "Come Back, Dennis! The Island Misses You!" You guessed it...as the coach, filled with passengers, pulled into Cardwell, Bonnie stepped out in front of the laden bus, waving the banner! It caused quite a stir, together with lots of excitement and laughter. Dennis did enjoy the special treatment...it was his moment in the sun!

A most memorable, cherished vignette...

Going Overboard! When Is "Enough Is Enough" Too Much?

What's happening to children's birthday parties these days?

Peer pressure is butting in here as well, it seems. 'Peer Pressure' is a bit pushy, methinks, and should be taken aside, or down to the old shed out the back and given a good talking to! A few home truths and facts of life should be explained, in detail, to 'Peer Pressure'. I don't remember my mother or grandmother ever succumbing to this kind of nonsense. It used to be 'Keeping up with the Jones's'...but the 'Jones's' left town and the 'Peer Pressures' moved in to take their place! Now, with their pushiness, they've taken over the neighbourhood!

I do, however, remember excitedly shifting from one foot to the other, my eyes sparkling in eager anticipation, while I watched my mother preparing chocolate crackles, 'cheerios' ready to be heated when needed, accompanied by the obligatory bowls of tomato sauce, home-made sausage rolls, savoury biscuits/crackers bearing deliciously-tasting toppings of a vast variety, fancy cupcakes, bowls of nuts, lollies/candy and crystallized ginger. And of course, the main feature of the day, the decoratively-iced birthday cake.

When my brother and I were children, our birthday parties were never Cecil B. De Mille productions, but we eagerly and impatiently waited for each birthday to arrive (not like today!). Just a couple of good mates would join in with the fun. The afternoon would be spent racing around the yard, playing and chasing each other! Every now again stopping by the table for a 'top-up' of fuel to re-energise our motors for the next game of 'cowboys and indians' or whatever was on the agenda. A tub of ice loaded with bottles of sarsaparilla, lemonade, lemon squash, creaming soda, ginger beer and horehound stood by to quench our wild, young thirsts.

Kids don't need lavish birthday parties. They need to be able to kick off their shoes, run around the yard bare-footed, get dirty and go back to their homes with sticky faces and gravel-rashed knees and elbows!

Let's get back to basics....let's get back to the simple ways as much as we possibly can. Children don't need all the fancy toys and gadgets to make them happy. A child's imagination and the freedom to allow a child to utilize that imagination is the best gift one can give a child.

About Time...

I wrote this poem a few weeks prior to Christmas. It's been a while since I posted a poem, perhaps today is the day I should embrace the moment and include one of my ramblings in my posts. I sorted through my file that contains my mental compositions, prose, verse and other sometimes inane scribblings and garble. Some are excluded from public display and critique. I've levied a boycott upon them for one reason or the other.

A Taunting Dance

You tempt me you tease and taunt
Seduce perversely with a cold heart
Your silences in my face you flaunt
False words continually tear me apart

My wounded heart battered and torn
Am I walking through your treachery
No longer can I bear your surly scorn
Nor your injurious mean mockery

I am drowning waiting but no more
Sick of living in someone else’s skin
Your continual deceptions I abhor
I cannot keep taking it on the chin

Did it ever occur to you in your deceit
Eventually I would see the light
My dance with you is at last complete
Will I be missed as I fade into the night

Love Is In The Air!

No...not that kind of 'love'....although I am breathing deeply in valiant but vain attempts to capture its magic and am reluctant to exhale. However, I'm not referring to love between a man and woman, a mother and child or a love of ice-cream. My focus here is on the tennis, the Australian Open.

Prior to the first day's opening events yesterday morning, love wasn't in the air, because opposing groups of 'yobbo's' (idiots/clowns) comprised of Croatian, Serbian and Greek youths in search of a brawl rather than an entertaining fun day of tennis watching, caused an embarrassing disturbance. Violent scenes like yesterday's have no part in Australian sporting events. All who were involved in yesterday's embarrassing, angry, offensive ruckus should be banned for the rest of their natural lives from attending, not only tennis tournaments, but all sporting events in this country. Enter them in a 2000km cycling race along the Great Barrier Reef!

With all the sport going on at the moment...the tennis and the cricket...I'm as fit as I've ever been! No sooner do I finish a game against Serena Williams, I'm away to bowl against the English! Then I have to face-off against Sharapova! Without a moment to lose, I've had to toss away the racquet, swiftly change my outfit, put on a new outfit with all the extra bits, pieces and padding, grab my cricket bat and belt the hell out of the Kiwis! Whew! It's a hectic, tough life at the moment! You should see my blisters! On my hands...don't be rude!

Missing Person...

Has anyone "seen" Lee of "A Curate's Egg"? Each time I've tried to bring up his blog over the past week, another site, on magnets, comes up.

Raising The Bar...

The discussion is rife again about raising the legal drinking age in this country from 18 years to 21 years, many arguments being put forward, for and against. I'm in the "for" camp.

When I was a teenager one had to be 21 years old to legally drink. At the age of 16, I tried scotch for the first time, straight, in a tea cup of all things! I was at a 'gathering' (it was more of a gathering than a party) with some friends in the home of another. They were all a few years older than I was, at the time (and still are. We were sitting around in his lounge-room listening to jazz records. I commenced my working life as a shy, young legal secretary with a law firm in Gympie, mid-year of my Junior-level in High School. I was 15 going on 16. I made new friends upon starting work as most of my school friends remained at school.

Life in those days was filled with parties, dances, record hops, balls and weekends surfing at the coast. Alcohol was present but it wasn't a major force in our lives. I drank illegally, but never abused it, one reason being the fact that I was under-age. I respect the law, even though I was breaking it!

Before going to balls, there were always pre-ball parties. Often times our ball party met up at the Empire Hotel in Mary Street. The hotel was just a few doors down from the office in which I worked. I'm sure the hoteliers knew how old I was, particularly as just about every week, sometimes more than once a week, a photo of me would be in the local paper, 'The Gympie Times'. This pictorial invasion of my privacy occurred because a fellow I worked with was the local town photographer in his spare time. He took photos for submission to the paper, wedding photographs, debutantes, coming-of-age, anniversaries...you name it, he took it. And when he ran out of ideas, he took pictures of me...me, off to the coast for the weekend...me, buying a new pair of shoes...me, watching the grass grow (during the drought, watching paint dry!)...anything he could think of, he 'shot' me because I was 'there' and the paper needed space filled! When I was 18 years old, I was one of four local girls who were entered into the "Miss Australia" Quest. We were 18 at the time and received quite an amount of publicity in the town. Our ages were out there for all to see. I'm telling you this to help paint a picture of those days.

My belief is, even though we drank, we behaved ourselves because we *were* under-age. I know I didn't want to draw attention to myself. I knew I wasn't supposed to be drinking, so if I got into trouble because of that, the doors would be shut at home. I wouldn't be allowed out again! My friends and I never abused alcohol. "Binge-drinking" wasn't part of our lives.

The 'Reef Hotel', as it was known in those days, on top of the hill at Noosa Heads, was a wonderful place to congregate. It was the 'watering-hole' of the Noosa Heads lifesavers, who were a tempting draw-card, of course! Many a Friday night or Saturday night was spent out on the wide deck enjoying the sea breezes and a few drinks...and the view! Mostly, though, we were more interested in going to the 'record hops' and 'hopping' the nights away, than drinking.

The point I'm making is, because the law said we had to be 21 years of age to drink legally, when we did drink under age, we respected the law (that sounds double-edged, doesn't it?) and rather than draw attention to ourselves, we behaved.

The way it is today with the legal age being 18 years, kids are drinking at younger and younger ages. They're not mature enough to know 'right' from 'wrong'. In far too many cases, they feel they have to compete with their peers and within a blink of an eye, everything gets out of control. Our newspapers show too many stories of young people injured or killed from alcohol-related incidents. Of course, in today's young society they have the demon drugs tempting them as well. It is a lethal cocktail!

Don't Get Excited!

No....I didn't take these photographs. I've not progressed that far as yet. I will, though. I'll have to escape from the mountain sometime over the next few days as I have to pick up a USB cord. Two arrived on order at a store up here yet and I've still to take my camera with me to see if one of them is suitable. I have my doubts. It that turns out to be the case, I will visit a camera store at Helensvale, down on the Gold Coast. It's not too far from the mountain and I'll dodge all the madness of the traffic down there. You've probably noticed by now, I hate leaving my mountain hide-away! However, if I have to do so, my passport is up-to-date, I will make a quick dash into the hectic, outside world!
It's a long time since I've shared any recipes with you. I imagine you're all starving by now! Forgive me my tardiness! Hopefully, these will make up for my shocking neglect! You must remember, though, you have enjoyed the Festive Season in between takes!
Watermelon & Goat Cheese Salad: Place in a large bowl, 8 cups seedless watermelon, cut into 1-inch cubes, 1 cup crumbled goat's cheese, 2 tablespoons freshly chopped mint, 1 teaspooon freshly chopped coriander/cilantro and 2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice. Combine gently. Serve decorated with sprigs of fresh mint leaves.
Chicken Legs with Sweet Tomatoes: Pre-heat oven to 180°C/350°F/gas 4. Season four chicken legs, jointed all over with salt and grounded black pepper and put them into a snug-fitting pan in one layer. Throw in chopped basil leaves and stalks, then chuck in your 2 handfuls of red and yellow, halved and ripe plum tomatoes, quartered. Scatter the a whole knob of garlic, broken up into cloves into the pan with 1 chopped chilli and drizzle over some olive oil. Mix around a bit, pushing the tomatoes underneath. Place in the oven for 1.5 hours, turning the tomatoes halfway through, until the chicken skin is crisp and the meat falls off the bone. If you fancy, you can add a 410g can of cannelloni beans or some sliced small new potatoes to the pan and cook them with the chicken. Or you can serve the chicken with some simple mashed potato. Squeeze the garlic out of the skins before serving. You could even make it part of a pasta dish - remove the chicken meat from the bone, shred it and mix it with cooked linguine or spaghetti. Gorgonzola Quichettes with Red Onion & Thyme Confit
200 g shortcrust pastry* (ready-rolled)
15 g butter
1 medium red onion (peeled and thickly sliced)
1 heaped tsp brown sugar
1 tbsp good balsamic vinegar
1 tbsp thyme leaves
150 g gorgonzola
2 egg yolks
4 tbsp mascarpone
2 tbsp single cream
salt, pepper
Pre-heat oven to 200C. Line 24 mini muffin tins with shortcrust pastry. (I have a non-stick and a silicon. I don't need to grease it, but do so if your tin requires it...the dough shouldn't be thicker than 1-2 mm. Cut off surplus dough and smooth round the edges. Prick with a fork, then line with small pieces of grease-proof paper and fill with baking beans or pulses. Place tray in the oven and blind-bake pastry for 10 minutes, it should be cooked through, but not too brown on the edges. Leave pastry shells to cool, then store in an air-tight container. For the onion confit, melt the butter in a non-stick pan, fry the onions until browning, then add the sugar and let caramelise. Deglaze with the balsamic vinegar and cook over a low heat, enough for the onions to soften through and the vinegar to lose its edge. This should take about 15 minutes. Add the thyme leaves and season to taste. The confit will keep in an airtight container in the fridge for a week. To finish the quichettes, pre-heat oven to 180C. Beat the egg yolks with the mascarpone and cream, season to taste. Fill the pastry cases with roughly half a teaspoon full of gorgonzola, then top with a teaspoon full of the egg/cream mixture. Make sure the cases are not filled all the way to the top as the filling will rise. Put into the oven and bake for 10 minutes, until the mixture has set and is browning on top. Meanwhile, gently warm the onion confit in a pan to make it easier to handle. Remove the mini-quiches from the oven and leave to stand for a few minutes. Top with half a teaspoon of onion confit and serve while still warm.

You have no idea how long it has taken me to write this post! I'm not sure if it's blogger playing games with me or my computer. I'm hoping it's blogger, not my computer!!!! I hope you enjoy these that have taken me a week to write and post!!!!!!!!

Here's Our Chance!

And we should grab it with both hands! Sheik Taj Aldin Alhilali *again* has opened his big sloppy mouth during an interview on Egyptian television. He mustn't have very much room left in his mouth. He's already got both of his feet well-planted in it! Now he claims the Muslims in this country are more entitled to live here than those of us with Anglo-Saxon heritage! He and his followers wouldn't be living in this country and enjoying the fruits of the labour of our forefathers, if it wasn't for the blood, sweat and tears of those unfortunates who were bundled off from England, often because of minor misdemeanours such as stealing a loaf of bread to feed their starving families. For his information, I don't have 'convict heritage'. My great-grandparents on my maternal side came to this country from Scotland and Ireland under their own volition. On my paternal side, my grandfather and grandmother married in Ireland and came to Australia in search of a better standard of living to raise a family. However, even if I did have a 'convict heritage', I wouldn't be ashamed. I'd be proud, for those people who arrived to this country in shackles worked hard to build the country I live in and love today. I would be ashamed to have a heritage similar to Alhilali, though! He and his ilk are leeches on and looters of our society. He chose to live here. If he doesn't like Australia, Australians and our way of life, we're not forcing him to remain here! He is free to leave...but I would love to be there to give him a boot up the butt to help him swiftly on his way! Bye! Bye! Mr. Mufti!

Also, I take umbrage at being called a 'liar' by this freak of nature! Who or what gave him the right to say I am a liar?

He has chosen the wrong career path. He would make a wonderful 'stand-up comedian'!

Stay in Egypt, Alhilali....it is where you hail from and where you belong. You are not wanted in Australia!

Shake a leg, Sheik...we will willing send the rest of your belongings to you in Egypt to save you the trip back here! They'd only be a couple of bundles of old sheets, anyway, wouldn't they?

A Little Bit of This And a Little Bit of That!

I was thinking the other day...yes, I do that sometimes...depends on what day it is, though, and if the weather is conducive to such a ponderous activity.

A saying we're all very familiar with...'you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him/it drink". This applies to the heart as well.

You can lead a heart towards love but you can't make it love. And what are you left with...either a thirsty horse or an empty heart!

My mind works in mysterious ways...please don't ask my to explain its machinations!

Remy, one of my two cats, is occupied this morning. Out near the back door is a monitor I've been meaning to take to the refuse tip for quite some time. I never seem to remember to put it in the car! Anyway, Remy has spent the past thirty minutes or so, sitting in front of the dead computer monitor.

Now I could make a couple of things out of this spectacle. He's watching his reflection or perhaps he's waiting for it to come on. To him it's very similar to what I'm always sitting in front of here in this room. And, it's also very similar to a television screen. Perhaps he's waiting for his favourite show to commence! It's very generous of me to supply my cats with their own personal screen.

My mind has been in overload since this past Tuesday when I, as a gift from a special friend, a Konica Minolta Dimage A2 digital camera. Having always been the 'point-and-shoot' kinda gal, hoping for the best end result, this camera is a whole new ball game! If I appear more vague than I usually am, please forgive me. My head has been buried in learning all that I can in a very short period to become a most proficient operator of this magnificent beast! It is necessary that I do become extremely proficient as I am required to take photographs of food that I will be preparing for an article I write for a northern newspaper! They really put the cat amongst the pigeons when they asked for photos to accompany my article! Who do they think I am? A professional photographer! Well, I'll show 'em! I'm up for the challenge! "Never-Give-In-Lee" is my nickname!

Today, I've slipped into the "mean reds" as Holly Golightly would say. The 'mean reds' are a couple of steps up from the 'blues' or down from the 'blues', whichever way you choose to look at it. I know the reasons why this mood has descended upon my fragile being but I won't share those secrets with you. Suffice to say, the 'mean reds' will depart as quickly as they arrived last night! I might have myself a mean glass of red wine later to help them on their way! Either that or a damn good cry to wash them out of my system...maybe both! Why do things in half measures when you can do the whole damn performance? Lady Macbeth...look out...be on your toes!

To top it off...as I was turning into the entrance of the car park to the local supermarket, a couple of 'young turks' on skateboards were skylarking along the footpath. Right in front of my car, one smart young brat decided, purposely to stumble of his board and very slowly bend down to retrieve it. It was all an act to cause delay to me turning in off the road. Well, he picked the wrong person today. I purposely stared straight ahead, purposely not seeing him and I purposely didn't lessen the rate if my progress. He soon got the message of my purpose! What he didn't know is it was I who wrote the script to all their games!

Yep...there are a few 'getting on my goat' today! I'd better quit while I'm ahead! I'm going to bury myself in the instructions' manual! See you when I re-surface...in a better mood, one would hope!

Not Invited!

I'm sick and tired of finding uninvited, unwelcome visitors in my bed!

A few moments ago, I sauntered into my back room with my mind on what I was about to do, when I came to an abrupt halt. There resting on the bed was a damn big blue-tongue lizard! How dare he! I let out a suitable gentle word describing my shock. He didn't flinch an eyelid!

So, I grabbed my trusty weapon, the broom....and proceeded to direct him back outside to where he belongs. Sir Blue-Tongue didn't take kindly to this demeaning treatment of his royal self. His reaction was quite violent, actually. He dared to spin around a number of times to give me nasty displays of his wrath at being disturbed, let alone being pushed back into the wilds and forced to mingle with lowly creatures below his station in life! Once outside, he did a final about-turn to show me he was not yet beaten nor cowered. Cocking his head up high, he opened his mouth wide. With a final ostentatious flourish of his irritation at being dispatched in such a way, he flicked his tongue at me in a most unpleasant manner! I returned the favour! After all, I still held the upper hand...and the broom in it, I might add!

Meanwhile, Remy, my male cat, asleep on top of a bookcase was totally oblivious to the drama unfolding around him!

When will everyone understand...it's the tall, dark handsome 'you-know-what' I want to discover on my bed, not a blue-tongue lizard! Santa never gets it right!

Am I The Only One?

Everyone seems to be complaining because we're experiencing a cool summer! Not I! You will not hear even a murmur of a whinge from me! I'm loving this cooler weather. My hope is that it remains throughout summer. I hate the oppressive heat we normally experience at this time of the year. The weather throughout the Christmas/New Year period was magnificent. I even wore cotton-knit jumpers/sweaters during those glorious rainy days from Boxing Day onwards, and loved every moment of it.

Spending days dripping wet from perspiration, stepping out of a shower attempting to towel one's self dry only to become wet all over again without even taking a step, trying to find something cool enough to wear, muttering to one's self when clothes stick to the skin when trying to dress, hair clinging annoyingly around the face, mascara running in dark streams, turning one's appearance into that of a circus clown, is not my idea of 'pleasant'.

Sleepless nights spent tossing and turning with not a breath of air, only dense, exhausting humidity pressing heavily down, sucking out every last skerrick of energy. Languidly suffering inertia, day and night. One's strength sapped, overtaken by lifeless torpor. Scorching days when a relenting, heartless sun beats down causing plants and trees to forlornly droop, beseeching it to cease its taunting, unforgiving furnace. Hot water flows from the 'cold' water tap. Drinking copious amounts of liquid in an attempt to replenish the body's supply until one can handle no more. When it's too hot to enjoy an alcoholic beverage...now that is tortuous!

Do I miss the smouldering, broiling, torrid, sweltering heat. No...I don't. If I'd chosen to live in a kiln, I would have been a piece of clay!

If you think I'm enjoying the refreshing coolness of this summer...then you are correct!

Return To Sender....

Sleep decided to abandon me tonight, at least for a while. Not that I mind, really. Fine sprinklings of misty rain fell softly on my roof as if in a gentle lullaby played by the slender fingers of a gossamer-winged midnight fairy. Thunder sullenly moaning in the distant mountains frightened the rain away. Temporarily, I hope.

It's a while since I've written about Newry Island, another island on which I lived. On Newry, I lived alone except for my two cats, Pushkin and Rimsky. They are not the two cats I have with me now. Pushkin, however, did come to the mountain with me, but sadly died about seven months after I moved here. He was a well-travelled cat, my dear Pushkin. He was a character. I loved him dearly. I digress. It is not my cats of which I write.

One day in a mad organisational fit, I decided to clean out the very large freezer in the back room adjoining the kitchen. Mysterious frozen creatures lived in the bottom of the freezer. The longevity of these frigid oddments raised a high level of suspicion within me. I knew they had been suspended in motion in the antarctic reaches of the throbbing, ancient freezing chest long before I had arrived on the island, though I could not testify exactly to the length of their frozen sentence. Frostbite had set in, badly affecting the appearance and, no doubt, the quality of a number of large legs of pork. Amongst the benumbed pork legs were deep orange-coloured shells of cooked mud crabs of various sizes, their petrified pincers firmly and stiffly stamped their presence. It broke my heart to have to throw out so many mud crabs...forget the glacial pigs. It was sacrilegious to toss away such delicious crabs, but it had to be done for the good of mankind and womankind...and a few children-kinds.

On the chosen day, no guests were on the beach to witness my sacrifice to the seas. I decided it would be far easier to toss the frozen, once-upon-a-time delicacies out into the sea. Dust to dust...this was fodder to fish. I could have dug a mass grave and buried the lot but that would have been a tediously long and hard exercise. Casting the swine before pearls and the crabs to crustaceans seemed, to me, the most sensible option.

Picking the time when the tide was high just before the turn, like a martyr I agonized as I tossed the uncured but still frozen hams into the surging sea. Like a crazy, fevered fish-wife, I propelled each glorious crab to its crypt beyond the sea!

Satisfied, I gravitated back to the main building, every now and again looking over my shoulder, bidding final farewells to the castaways as they floated out to sea to whence they came. Well, at some stage, the pork arrived by boat to the island. It had to cross the sea. Let's not get too pedantic!

The following morning around ten, I heard the motor of a boat approaching. I headed down to the beach to meet whomever it was. Behind me followed the family who were staying in one of my cabins. We all approached the edge of the water at the same time, naturally. One of the little boys yelled out excitedly.

"Look! Look! Mum! Look! Dad! Mud crabs! Mud crabs everywhere!"

The annoyingly observant child kept bellowing as he ran about as if possessed!

I wanted to disappear down into the sand, to never again re-surface! I felt like drowning that kid before I did, though!

Bobbing on each wave in front of us were brilliant orange-coloured mud crabs, together with large, water-sodden legs of pork! Newry Island was unique. Not only could one fish for pork legs out in the bay but the mud crabs were already cooked when you caught them, which saved a lot of trouble!

Meanwhile, the boat whose motor had alerted me in the first place of the pending arrival of visitors, was now in the channel with its bow turned towards the island. Quick as a flash I ran up the beach, found a couple of fairly sturdy sticks and proceeded to try to hold the pork legs down, while trying to manage to drown bright orange mud crabs at the same time. I was out-numbered!

With much levity, I made buoyant a weighty, but floating situation!

The pork and crabs had been brought back in with the tide. The second incoming tide, of course, carried them further out to sea where there would have sunk to the nether regions and to where many creatures would dine on them. I should have caught the earlier tide, but then, if I had, Newry Island would never be known as the island where one can catch pre-cooked mud crabs straight out of the ocean!

Finally! I Have Been Wanting To Post This All Morning!

After beating my head against an imaginary brick wall all morning into early afternoon, I'm finally able to post! I hope! I shan't speak too soon, or if I do, I'll say it in a whisper so only you can hear.

I'd like to tell you the story of how I ended up having the best barman in Queensland working for me/with me when I was on Hinchinbrook Island. He could very well have been the best barman in Australia!

For the two years prior to my stint on Hinchinbrook, I had my own business in Hastings Street, Noosa Heads...a very beautiful, and very popular tourist destination for those of you who have not heard of the area. Noosa is around 2 hours drive north of Brisbane, the capital of Queensland.

I operated a small boutique-style fruit/vegetable/healthfood store in Hastings Street, in what was then the "Laguna Arcade". The arcade has since been demolished. A fancy new building has been erected in its stead. I prepared and served fresh fruit salads, salads, cakes and cookies, fresh home-made (store-made) soups, fresh fruit juices, fresh vegetable juices, smoothies, dips, roasted and boiled peanuts...you name it...I made it and sold it...anything that wasn't bolted to the floor, nailed to the walls or hanging from the ceiling was unsafe in my presence. A full-blown stereo with two large, appropriately placed speakers, played music day long.

Almost every afternoon around two on his way to work, Johnno, a barman from 'Annabelle's Restaurant', popped into my friendly little shop for me to make him a fresh fruit juice or a smoothie. He always joined me out in the back area...which also doubled as my very small kitchen. Placing himself on an old Bentwood chair, he chatted while I prepared his drink. He was a pleasant young man, but half the time I didn't know what to talk with him about, so I usually swung our conversation around to the 'goings-on' in Noosa and the restaurant trade.

I sold my shop, moving to Hinchinbrook Island to a totally different lifestyle and...life.

It was late one May afternoon. As was my habit each day, I would walk to the end of the jetty with departing guests to farewell them as they left on the contracted island boat that deposited them back to the mainland at Cardwell. Daina (correct spelling), a young lass who worked for me was with me this particular afternoon. As the 45ft reef-cat pulled away from the jetty, I said to Daina..."Let's stick around here a bit...pretend we're admiring the sun go down. Just keep chatting with me. I don't like the look of those couple of fellows in that dinghy over there."

Out to the left of the jetty, a couple of scruffy-looking young fellows were sitting in their boat, staring across at us. Always on the alert, I was watching them, but not watching them, if you understand my meaning. Soon, they drew nearer to where Daina and I were standing. I noticed one of them smiling up at me with a grin on his unshaven face as wide as Missionary Bay on the island...and Missionary Bay is wide!

"Lee! It's me! John!" Said the sea-faring fisherman!

I looked again and broke out laughing. "What the hell are you doing way up here, Johnno? You're lucky! I was just about to chase you off!"

Laughingly, he replied, "I know! I could see the look on your face as we drew closer!"

He and his mates were camping at Macushla, a camping area run by National Parks further around at Missionary Bay on the island. The previous couple of days they'd spent fishing in and around the Bay and out at Brook Island.

We chatted at length. Seeing, unexpectedly, a friendly face from my Noosa days was a wonderful change from the customary strangers with whom I'd become used to dealing, day after day.

John asked if he and his mate could come to dinner the following evening, with me as their guest. "I promise you I will be better dressed than this," he grinned at me. "I'll even shave!"

"You don't need to dress up here, Johnno...no suits and ties allowed!" Laughing, he jumped back into his boat, waved and went off on his merry way.

Daina and I strolled back up the jetty. I did a lot of talking to convince her to join me for dinner the next evening.

"Daina...I really don't know John that well...I only know him from his coming into my shop every other day. He always liked to hang about for a bit of a chat before he commenced work at the restaurant, and I don't
know his mate...anyway...you'll make up the foursome!" I didn't quite twist her arm, nor did I threaten torture. Before I got that far, she relented and agreed to help bail me out!

The next evening arrived and the two young men arrived, scrubbed up, dressed in clean casual gear and shaven! I'd arranged for a table for the four of us out on the deck. I always feel more comfortable dining outside, for whatever reason. On this evening, in particular, I could see no good reason to dine inside when we could sit outside with the ocean just below lapping the shore on Orchid Beach. As it turned out, the conversation flowed freely around the table, although Daina, shy by nature at the time, had to be kicked under the table every now and again, (by me!) to stir her into adding her tuppence-worth! It was a very pleasant evening during which, jokingly, I mentioned a couple of times or more that John should come and work for me on the island. The evening drew to a close. Daina and I escorted the 'boys' down along the jetty to where their boat was tied. Both men had donned overalls for their trip back to Macushla. As we strolled down the jetty, John fell off the side into the water below! And...no...he wasn't drunk! I'm still not sure how it happened! It happened so quickly...and it was pretty dark...being about 11.30pm!

All I could do was laugh when I got over the initial shock of seeing him, in slow-motion, descend to the dark depths below! The surprised look on his face when he re-surfaced still remains embedded in my memory!

"What are you doing down there, Johnno?" I asked between fits of laughter. "Your boat's tied up over there!" I'd be no good trying to save anyone! Bear that in mind if you're ever strolling down a jetty with me!

Somehow, with the help of his mate, I think, he scrambled back onto the jetty, dripping wet, of course! The overalls, which were meant to keep him warm on the trip back to the camping site were sodden! Luckily, he saw the humour in his misfortune.

Waving to our dinner companions as they rowed away into the dark of night, I said quietly to Daina..."Well, I guess that's 'bye-bye' to ever convincing him to come and work for me!" All the way back up the jetty to the restaurant, tears continued to flow down our faces from laughter.

About three weeks later, around ten o'clock one morning, I received a phone call from Johnno.

"Would you still like me to come and work for you, Lee?"

"Would I? Of course I would! But you would never leave Noosa!" I exclaimed.

"I'm taking a six-weeks' sabbatical from 'Annabelle's", John replied. "If you still want me...I can be up there in a couple of days."

John arrived as planned and promised, quickly fitting into the island way of life. The guests loved his sparkling personality and his brilliance at mixing drinks and cocktails. He could conduct conversations up and down the bar and never miss a beat. He was pretty to watch in his work!

One day a large yacht sailed in, anchoring out front of the resort for about five days. A lass of around 18-19 was part of the crew. It wasn't difficult to notice a 'friendship blossoming between John and the lass. All too soon, however, the yacht with the young lass on board set sail for reaches further north.

I had to go to the mainland for tourism business, to Cairns, which is a northern city about 2 hours' drive north of Cardwell/Hinchinbrook Island. John approached me asking if I could give him a lift to Cairns, but if, on the way, I would divert into Mission Beach to pick up Sue, the young lass who had set his heart a flutter. Mission Beach is north of Hinchinbrook Island. It lies east of Tully, a small sugar town. I declined to detour off the main highway as I needed to get to Cairns within a certain time, but I told him if he could arrange for Sue to be in Tully at 'such and such a time' etc., she was more than welcome to come with us. When a young heart is in anxious mode, anything is possible, I believe! Sue was at the designated spot and at the arranged time.

I dropped them off at a motel, then drove onto "Tradewinds" where I was booked in for the duration of my stay.
The next day I had a frantic phone call from Johnno asking if he could come to see me at my hotel. I agreed, setting an appropriate time.

He arrived a little flushed and, I imagine, a little nervous.

"I want to ask you, Lee," he started, "if there is room on the island for Sue...for a job for her?"

I looked at John, my mind racing doing the math. I knew that his 'sabbatical' from Noosa was drawing to the end of its course. Also, I knew that I didn't want to see him go. I would miss his bar expertise and his sparkling manner behind the bar. And, I knew that if I hired the 'girl', I would keep 'the boy'! So, I hired 'the girl' and kept 'the boy'...everyone was happy, including me!

Sue joined our merry band of outlaws. She was a very capable, lovely young lass. Her father had been in the diplomatic service. She spent a number of her growing years in the States.

John and Sue have since gone their separate ways. He has married. I was having breakfast at a restaurant in Noosa a couple or so years ago and who should walk up from the beach pushing a baby stroller... amongst all the surging tourists.... 'Johnno'! We talked and talked. It was so great to see him again. He moved back to Noosa. He presently operates and owns a nightclub in Hastings Street!

It's No Porky! What a Swine!

Texas farmer, Craig Baker, is making a stance. Good for him, I say!

Baker of Katy, a town just north-west of Houston...similar distance, I envisage, as Caboolture is from Brisbane... is staging pig races on his farm, a farm that has been in his family for 200 years. An Islamic group moved in next door and told Craig Baker his farm and his pigs had to go! In protest of being asked to move, Baker started staging pig races on Friday afternoons, one of the Islamic world's most holy days. The Katy Islamic mob have decided to build a mosque on the 11 acres they purchased adjoining Craig Baker's farm. The Islamic group knew about Baker's pigs before they purchased the land, and now, very unfairly, expect him to get rid of the pigs.

In protest, Baker is holding the very well-attended pig races. I reckon this is great. If I lived nearby, I would certainly attend, helping him in his cause and, also, for the fun. It is his right and I hope he wins his battle...not the pig races, but his right to keep the pigs on his property. He and the pigs were there first! 'Babe' would be up in arms over this!

I Can't See This Woman's Purpose!

Californian Democrat Nancy Pelosi took oath of office yesterday as the first female speaker of the US House of Representtives. The wealthy 66-year old grandmother who appears to be an advocate of Botox, arrived in the House of Representatives surrounded by her family. As votes were being called, she sat there cradling her youngest grandchild, born in November, in her arms...while her other five grandkids ran around causing mayhem as kids love to do!

It all seems more than slightly over-the-top to me. What point was she trying to make by holding the baby and allowing the other kids to run wild? The House of Representatives' chamber seems an unlikely and unsuitable place to be babysitting one's grandchildren, particularly during such a ceremony. It's a bit of a joke, I believe.

A Real Fine Love...

It does exist, you know! It all depends on how one looks at 'it'.

Yes...it depends on the individual. It's all down to the 'nitty-gritty'!

I still love that band....'The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band'.

Years ago, I had the LP (and that is another story how I bought it!)... a few years later, I was wandering up and down Collins Street in Melbourne...(one of my sojourns away from Hinchinbrook Island), and as I wandered to the 'northern' end of Collins Street, en route to my hotel in Rathdowne Street, Carlton,( it could very well have been the southern, eastern, western side if I had a clue ( I still don't...so much for my navigation skills!)...but we will say it is the 'northern' end of Collins Street, Melbourne...I strolled into a second-hand record music store...and there...right in front of me was the 'Nitty Gritty Dirt Band' cassette! I've always been a 'child of the wild blue yonder'...so I bought it! Oh...yes...I do love 'Mr Bojangles'! And, I particularly loved the 'Nitty Gritty Dirt Band' version of it. They were aptly named, even if they became a 'Christain/Gospel Band'.. Yes...I still wish I was a 'beatnik'...so proud I would be of being so. Kerouac lives forever! The sorry part is, nobody acknowledges the fact of who I am! Someone a few months ago accused me of being 'eccentric'...so that's getting close! And I felt proud!

When you can see the light at the top of the stairs when there are no stairs...I think that is pretty good!

I have many dreams...some I toss away...some I hold on to. I open my eyes....and I hold on to the dreams that are part of my heart. They are the good ones.

I know in my heart...where I want to be...where I want to stay...and those who choose to stay with me will enjoy the ride!

Silly as it may sound or appear...it is this time of the year that brings out such thoughts, such emotions...silly...because every day, every moment is a new year. It is at this time of the year that so much pressure, so much emphasis is put upon every moment, every day. And we, us, the individual, is/are supposed to survive every crazy moment. If we don't perform...others say we are 'scrooges'....we are not. I'm not!

I, myself, am sick and tired of having to 'perform' for the pleasure of others. So...I don't.

This is who I am...if I have tears...they are mine...and they are allowed. So let me enjoy!

I have a lot of love in my life. It is mine to have. I don't allow myself to get tangled up with the bullshit. I walk away from it. That does not mean I am without love. It doesn't mean I don't know how to give the love. Whether I receive it back...it doesn't matter. Giving is far better than receiving.

I am rambling, aren't I? But that is allowed...because this is my blog! ;)

Come...enjoy the fun of life...we get so bogged down in all the garbage...and we forget the goodness....we are true...it's a new light...a new day...every day...and we are here...believing....in the best that life can bring to us...let's be part of it.

I surrender...to the goodness of it all...and...I really am not the crazy one...maybe I am...that depends on which side of the coin you are looking!

You want to talk 'freedom' of the individual with me...here's your chance! I believe in the 'individual'.

It is the right we have...every single one of us...the individual. Always hold on to and hang on to the individual who you are. There is only one of you. The world and those who pretend to live in it will always try to take it away from you. Don't let that happen. Be true to yourself. Stolen moments are fine...make sure those moments linger...and last forever.

Touch the sky...it's there always for you to reach! There are those who will tell you otherwise...tell them to *eff* off! Always...believe in yourself! Do you know why? Because you are the best...love every moment you have!

There are those who don't like this attitude..stuff them...I say! As long as you believe in yourself, that is all that matters!

As I said, this is my 'blog'...and I am airing some of my opinions...like it or lump it! I'm going to pour myself another wine and think more about this! I know I've not offended anyone...so that is okay!

Spontaneous Combustion!

I was here quietly going about my own life when a loud rap sounded upon my back door! Well, some would say it was my 'front door' but I've blocked off my 'front door' with potted and hanging plants so, in actual fact, it is my back door. My back door is my front door. Confused! I'm not!

In the midst of the Aussies annihilating the Poms, a good friend of mine arrived, just when I was arguing with myself whether or not I should open a bottle of wine to celebrate the soon-to-be win by our cricket team. His appearance soon answered my question. I opened a bottle of white for him and a bottle of red for me. Putting together some cheese, salami, olives, dill pickles and crackers, we sat together, on the sofa, for a change, (instead of my dining table) to watch the dying moments of the Pom's defeat...yes! Defeated...5-0! Oh! Dear! *smile* *giggle* *joy*

As soon as the test was over and the presentations were made, off went the television and on went the stereo! Not that we hadn't conversed in between times...we did...lots of conversing! He has just left on his merry way...and left me feeling good things about life. Isn't it nice when that happens...spontaneously?

So, here am I...left with my thoughts and my music...and an almost empty glass...and empty bottle!

We discussed many things as is our habit to do. He wonders at my desire to stay reclusive. I don't. As I've said/written many times before, I enjoy the way I lead my life. Sure...I could make changes...but I neither have the money or the want do do so...at the moment.

If I had the money, there are a few things I would change, of course. 'Want'...well, that is another story entirely. The majority of times I do what I want anyway, within my means. There is little I want other than being totally independent, without money worries. Some silly bugger said once, and it's been often repeated, 'money doesn't buy happiness'...I bet whoever said that had money!

I 'want' someone in my life who understands me and cares for me. Someone who contacts me often. But again, I have that in my close, good friends. I don't have a 'loving partner' but that is okay...I can live without that...I've succeeded so far...and believe this is the life I'm meant to lead.

It's silly times like right now that I wished I had someone here to enjoy a bit of 'madness' with me. I enjoy being 'mad', if you've not already guessed!

Over there, somewhere in the wide blue yonder, I know there is someone who would like to share these moments with me, if only he saw the light!

In the meantime...and forever, it would seem...I will continue enjoying what I have. It sure beats living under a bridge with a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag! Even my two cats believe that! Remy has just pushed me off my computer chair! Do you think that is a sign for me to stop writing?

'Tis A Special Day...

At the sundown of their cricketing careers, Warnie and McGrath finished off with one thousand and one wickets between them in Test Cricket matches! What a wonderful achievement by these two men. We will miss them, no matter what anyone says. We'll miss the steady, gentle man, McGrath, and we will miss the larrikin, Warne, who at times has disappointed with his off-field antics, but never on the field. Larrikins, let's face it, attract and conduct our interest...whether we like it or not. And Warnie sure has been a larrikin! He's probably lived out and acted out many a man's dream!

It's a great day for the game. It's a great day for Aussie cricket. The crowds who have attended these matches and those who've watched from home on their sofas are testament to that.

Goodbye to Shane Warne, Glen McGrath and Justin Langer. Thank you for the games and the fun.

Lap It Up While You Can!

This time of the year is wonderful! Yes, our illustrious politicians are all holidaying. There is little heard from and about them on the news bulletins except of an odd sighting or two at cricket, and then they're drowned out by the boisterous crowds!

You know what...I don't miss all their waffling on, either!