Bunny Carries On

Selby did quite nicely for himself on the north face of Mount Potty. He went under the radar, which is just the way he likes it.

“Oh it still gives me the shits, after a life time spent in a country town,” said Selby. “Mrs What’s-her-name, or Mrs who’s-me-bob, or Mrs Nanoonook says hello to you at the local and you are supposed to remember what the bitches name is.”

“You should have been a diplomat, Selby honey,” said Bunny.

“Instant recall that is what they demand, or Mrs What’s-Her-Face, from the dry cleaner gets shitty unbeknownst to me because I take my shirts in their and I didn’t instantly recognise who she was. She gets her nose out of joint and she is still snubbing me at the county fare six months after I have forgotten the incident.”

Bunny tried to give one of her knowing looks.

He’s been overlooked for a decade, the local hooch house. You could drive up the back of the house on the circular drive way. You’d head in the back door, where there was a counter of sorts, like a closed in back veranda, Selby had what you wanted in a tin box, ready for you to pick up.

“Don’t forget to call first.”

All nice and out of sight. That was until it was found out that young Daniel Pickering was paying for his pot with his arse, and Senior Sargent Pickering, his father, was furious. But he didn’t want it broadcast widely that young Daniel was a pillow biter, so he kept it quiet. But someone told Kylie Kloppers and she told whoever would listen, until her mother started keeping her home. Everyone was shocked, of course, and nobody really believed it. People were more shocked that someone amongst them was capable of making up such obvious lies about an upstanding member of their community.

Suspicion fell on Kylie and her, shall we say, “problems.”

Truth be known, young Daniel was a keen bottom, he’d head to the big smoke for it on Saturday night, and a keen pothead, from all accounts. He needed the pot for the Saturday night jaunts. He couldn’t function really well unmedicated, on a daily basis, so some said.

“I can,” said Daniel. He sounded anxious. “I just chose not to, the day is much nicer on it.”

He thought nothing about paying for his pot supply via his well developed nether regions. As it turned out, FayAnne had lost interest in sex pretty much. “Three long, hard bongs, and I don’t really care what I stick it into,” admitted Selby to Daniel. And the boy’s got muscles and real stamina, he can take as good as any drunk chick I’ve had down the back of Robbos. And he really seems to like it. It just feels tight and warm to me.

Selby and Daniel’s sex became more passionate. “He’s athletic, he really likes it, and I can bend him any way I fucken like,” said Selby. “He’s wet and he’s smooth. I first thought about Beyonce, sucking her snatch, but now the little monkey has got my full attention.

If the town only knew the truth.

One of the town’s favourite sons, is taking it up the arse enthusiastically from the resident hippy, old enough to be his father, to procure his pot supply, so he can keep up the pretence of fucking the prom queen, Angelic Maddern, the mayor’s daughter, so the community don’t catch on that he is secretly a queer. After Kylie Kloppers scandal, Angelica came out and publically stated that Daniel was a very normal functioning boy. Which shocked some of the old cadavers, as Bunny used to like calling them. To counter her relaxed liberal attitudes, the conservative “powers that be” questioned how many boys had Angelic had to know to know how a normal functioning boy functioned. They basically called her a slut, and it stuck to some degree.

“That girl advertised her sex life all over town,” said Mrs Gafoops, or Mrs What’s her Name, or Mrs WhoosyWhatsit down at the RiteWay.

“The moment I look backwards, kill me,” Bunny used to say. She says it is the result of 2 sentimental parent’s who never looked forward. “Everything was be’a back ‘ome.”

“That’s my Kylie Kloppers impersonation.”

“You’re awful Bunny.”

“It’s a dead spit.”

Their entire lives, a country they left was better that the one in which they spent most of their lives. I don’t want to be like that.



Selby put a fresh pot of tea and a fresh plate of biscuits down on the table in front of both their chairs.

“You’ve always rolled the best splifs, Selby,” said Bunny. “It is a real talent.”

“Why thank you Miss Bunny.”

“You are welcome, kind sir.” Bunny chuckled. “Even if you do make me sound like a madam when you call me that.”

“So what have you done to yourself?”

“Oh, it is so embarrassing, I fell down in the street, for the first time. Tripped and fell.”

“Truly, the first time?” Selby had his compassionate face on. Gruff private Selby, people didn’t get to see the sweet side of him.

“Yes, numero uno. It was a first for me. It happened so quick.”

“You sure.”

“Oh yes, absolutely sure, darl. I tripped. If I was blacking out all over the place, I’d be the first to do something about it.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, fine, except for the knee,” said Bunny. “It feels like it is buggered. I’ve spent all morning with doctors who can only really offer a pill and It-will-get-better-with-time speech.”

“Doctors.” Selby cursed.

“I don’t know why I bother with western medicine,” said Bunny.

“You should have come straight here.”

“I should have just come straight here.”

“I’ll play mother?” asked Selby.

“Yes, do.”



Another car stops on the gravel out the front of the house. A car door closes. Footsteps approach crunching on the gravel. A handsome young man arrives, who Bunny doesn’t recognise, at first.

“Selby?”

“Oh, well, hello.”

“I thought I saw another car in the drive.” Daniel looked at Selby, Bunny was sure, apologetically. Bunny wasn’t to know that was one of Selby and Daniel’s signs, if there was another car in the drive way, do not come in.

“Yes, indeed,” said Selby. “This is a curious time, to be frank.”

“I’m sorry,” said the young man. “Mrs Robertson.” He nodded and smiled in Bunny’s direction. It wasn’t until he addressed Bunny directly that she realised who the young man was. Daniel looked back at Selby. “It is just that I…”

“What?” said Selby.

“Need…”

“It is just not a good time.”

“Oh.” Daniel was unsure what to do next, as though he had never been denied before. He rocked backwards and forwards on his feet. “Maybe, later… then?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Selby. Selby sounded needlessly gruff.

Daniel retreated backwards, slowly out of sight back down the gravel path from where he came. As if in slow motion.

Bunny looked back at Selby.

“Excuse me,” said Selby. He got up and disappeared into the house. He was gone for a while, Bunny sipped her tea. Then she heard voices in the car park.

Selby appeared back along the garden path.

“I thought you went into the house?”

“Oh… er… um…” Selby stumbled over his words. “Everyone is in need… what can you do?” Selby sat down heavily next to Bunny. He picked up a joint from the table. “Now where were we?” Selby dangled the joint in the air.

“Oh I shouldn’t…”

“So that is a no?”

“No,” said Bunny. Selby looked confused. “That is a yes.”

“Double negative,” said Selby. “That’s my girl.”

“Good thing old Bestsy knows her own way back down the mountain, that’s all I can say.”

“It seemed hardly fare to let the lad go without when we had plenty.”

She was not really that interested in Daniel, or what he was doing there, except Selby continued to bring it up. She’d heard the whispers, but it had only been whispers, and she’d heard so little that sounded like fact. Kylie drivelling on does not a truth make. But suddenly Bunny felt as though she had seen the duck walk, and she’d heard the duck talk. She giggled to herself at the analogy. She looked at Selby, she wanted to say, Selby Gillup you old dog, you have been ducking that boy. She giggled some more.

“What?” coughed Selby as he exhaled the marijuana smoke.

“Nothing,” giggled Bunny.

Bunny asked for no explanation, even after Selby disappeared after Daniel so obviously, Bunny still wasn’t bothered. He kept giving me answers to questions Bunny never asked, it has to get a girl’s attention, eventually.

Selby hands Bunny the joint.

“So, it is true?”

“What?” Selby asked casually. He had no idea what was true.

Bunny sucked on the joint. “You and the boy.” Bunny sucked on the joint again. “Daniel.” Bunny sucked on the joint again. “Just now.” Carl had taught her to take three tokes. That was after he resisted for the longest time, saying split smoking was man’s business. He finally relented, when he saw her less than proficient efforts. And he taught her how to ‘Smoke a joint properly,’ as Carl always said.

“What?” Selby repeated. Not casual this time, on guard, shields had been raised.

“This is good smoke,” said Bunny. “It doesn’t catch in my throat.”

“Papua New Guinea Gold,” said Selby suspiciously. “The best that is around at the moment. Grown in the tropics, on a north facing hill of virgin forest, digested and defecated by possums every last bud of it.”

The sun was warm. Bunny passed the joint back to Selby.

“You got away with it?”

“Got away with what, Mrs R?” Oh, ah, face. “Bunny.”

“You beat them at their own game?”

“Who? Beat them at what?”

“The grape vine, the gossip mill, the Chinese whispers, the back fence… you beat it. You took them on and won!”

“You better ease up on the hooch, old girl.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it is with sheer admiration that I speak these words.”

“You’ve always been an odd bird, Bunny.”

Bunny sucked on the last of the joint. She and Selby were odd birds together, that was for sure. Selby always gave her something no one else gave her, a part from the obvious, a big does of reality.

“That boy, I saw how he looked at you.”

Suck two.

“I saw with my own eyes.”

Suck three. She handed it back to Selby.

“I don’t need you to tell me,” said Bunny. The smoked burned for the first time in Bunny’s lungs, she had to let it out. Carl and his-hold-it-in-as-long-as-you-can business be buggered.

A cloud of smoke materialised between them and danced in the sun’s rays like a fine, sheer curtain.

Selby sucked on what was left of the joint, as though his life depended on it at that moment. He looked at the roach, and discarded it after some thought.

“Jees Mrs R… I… I… don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” The joint was hitting, Bunny was feeling very grand. Her knee had stopped hurting. “Just stop and reflect that you beat them all,” said Bunny. “I didn’t believe it, not for a minute. Really, nobody did.”

“You see he’s Pickerings kid,” said Selby. “So he kept it all hushed up.”

This was new information that Bunny had never heard before, an admission, of sorts. “He looks man enough to me,” said Bunny. “What was the fuss about?”

Selby opened and closed his mouth.

“He drove up. He’s an adult. He has to make his own decisions as much as anybody else.”

“This has been going on for sometime.”

“Still going on?” asked Bunny.

Selby nodded ever so slightly.

So it was true.

Selby lit another joint.

“I’ll have to be calling Carl to come and get me, again.”

“So is that a no?” said Selby exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“No,” said Bunny. They both laughed. She took the hand rolled cigarette from Selby’s hand.

Bunny felt as thought the topic had been changed. The conversation stumbled.

“How long have I known you now, Mrs R?” It was a cold start line, something to say as you pass the joint.

“How old are you?” asked Bunny.

“40 years.”

“I’ve known you for 40 years,” said Bunny. “I never forget your mother changing you on the bar at the Horse’s Head. The whole bar saw your doodle that day.”

“I didn’t think I was that old.”

“I hope it grew.”

“Mrs R!”

Bunny broke out laughing, she had amused herself.

“You’re just lucky it wasn’t in the day of the phone camera, you’d have been an internet… er… thingy.”

“Sensation.”

“Sensation,” said Bunny. She was still giggling.

“Down Barry Baxter’s.”

The smile disappeared from Bunny’s face, she slapped Selby. “You mustn’t say that.”

Selby laughed. “Every boy knew Barry Baxter fiddled with boys. Some boys went down there to get fiddled with.”

“You want to do what you want to do wherever you want to do it, with whoever you want to do it with, nothing blows my hair back honey… but as an adult. No grey area.”

“Are you ever surprised at the things you do?”

“Not really,” said Bunny.

“The things we’ve do… done,” slurred Selby.

“The things we’ve done,” repeated Bunny. Tell me the things you’ve done, she thought. After she’d said it, she thought it was too pointed but she resisted the urge to correct it.

“The things we’ve done,” said Selby. “The things we’ve done. But if it is not hurting anyone, what can be the harm?”

Bunny murmured in agreement.

“Sometimes it is just two people discovering…” Bunny handed Selby the joint and effectively distracted the flow of the conversation. Bunny scolded herself for interrupting.

Selby took the joint. Silence, except for Selby’s raspy inhale.

The two friends sat on the deck of the cottage on the north face of Mount Potty, goon-faced, staring out to the undulating paddocks.

“Do you call those Dalmatian Cows?” Bunny laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks.

Bunny fumbled down beside herself for the longest time. She didn’t really want to move, she couldn’t really move, she was too comfortable to adjust her position at all, so her fingers fumbled in her bag for a time even she felt was too long. Then her fingers grasped the metal tin. She pulled the tin up to her face. She flipped the lid open. She turned to Selby.

“Mint?”

Bunny always carried a blue tin of Eclipse sugarless mints in her handbag, for occasions such as this.

“Thanks.”

Bunny Gets A Grip

It seemed like a long walk back to the Humber. Bunny walked as slowly as she could, but fast enough so as to not draw suspicion. She walked diagonally across the wide footpath. The quickest way, as the crow flies. Old crow, she thought. She kept a straight face, her knee burned and crunched. She was sure nobody was looking at her, but you never can be completely sure, country nooks and crannies being what they are.

Oh here comes… um… what is her name? Mrs Gafoops from the bakery, the one with the rather nice looking husband, Mathew, and the delinquent son, Jeremy. I don’t know how she does it. The son is completely, what is it that Felix says, of chops. Yes, poor lad is of chops on ice.

“Hello Bunny, lovely day.”

“Oh, yes, lovely,” said Bunny. “Just going for my constitutional.” Big smile, just as her knee twinged badly. Hold it. Hold it. Hold… exhale.

“Yes, quite,” said Mrs Gafoops, as she passed by.

Bunny exhaled.

Oh here comes Obese Gayhale – the ‘h’ is silent, but it has a rich ‘a’ sound, not nasally. Gahyle turned off to the bakery, crisis over. Should have seen that coming. Bunny still remembers the night Gayhale gave her a lift home from Sam’s the mechanic, when Gayhale had to rather shamefully grab for all the bakery bags in the passenger footwell and toss them in the back, when Bunny got in. You can’t even say that you can see the pretty girl under the fat girl just waiting to be let out. You can’t. There is no pretty girl. Poor lass is only in her twenties.



Bunny was grabbed suddenly around the waist from behind. She instantly tensed up, protective of her injury.

“How is my favourite MILF?” the voice whispered.

Bunny shrieked. It scared the hell out of her. Whoever it was, they smelt of sherry, reminiscent of Marge Dohongies English Trifle, although that couldn’t possibly be what was involved here, one wouldn’t have thought.

“OMG!” shrieked Father Brown, the man instructing at the forthcoming wedding, for whom Bunny was playing piano. He was the parish priest. There were rumours. This is the point where the nice ladies of the parish stopped using words, instead going for “the” hand gesture, that he drank. Tip the glass over, cat’s arse mouth. Ella went as far to say he couldn’t be trusted even after Sunday communion, but Ella always had a strange relationship with the opposite sex. There was the Guytano Poynton incident.

Father Brown seemed so normal when they met on church business, and now he was slobbering like a spaniel. “Long Brunch, Father Brown?” asked Bunny.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Father Brown. He was clearly embarrassed. Lost his head, in one of those inexplicable moments. “What can I do…?”

“Nothing,” said Bunny. “There is nothing wrong with me, take more than that.” She was concentrating on getting back to the car, barely putting any thought into her words. Father who?

“Okay.” Father Brown looked up and down the street. “I am SO sorry, I thought you were... oh, um, I thought you were, um… someone else. I’m sorry. Please excuse me Mrs Robertson…” He danced around her like a boxer.

Who did he think I was, thought Bunny? Who was he grabbing? “Perhaps, it is time for a stop at the optometrist,” said Bunny. Her knee hurt, she was aware that she was talking gibberish. She would usually laugh heartily after such a quip, just to show she was only half serious, but her knee hurt too much for that and she thought bugger it. “See you on Sunday… father.”

“Oh? Um? Ah. Yes, ah, quite.”

Bunny thought her footwork was pretty slick, not one stumble.

“So sorry.”

Bunny brushed at her skirt, as if there were something there, as she watched Father Brown make his haste exit. My favourite what? She thought. Oo, she visibly recoiled at her next thought. The thought of bloated red faced old men being touchy feely, it made her shiver. It is too old. She tells Carl to come to his senses now a days.



“Bun!”

It was Kylie Kloppers, there was no mistaking it. Bunny had never been able to certain if Kylie was some how touched, as Carl would say, “That girl’s touched, if ever there was one,” or if she was just socially awkward. She is not a pretty girl, none the less.

“Bun? What’s wrong with ya leg?” She had a mouth on her like a foghorn.

Dear Lord.

“Bunny, ya stocking’s got a bloody run in it,” said Kylie. “In the street?”

She always seemed to breath though her mouth, thought Bunny. “Has it.” Bunny did her best ballet movie, gracefully looking down the back of her stocking. She tried to appear nonchalant. The run was on her knee and she couldn’t see it, but what did it matter. “So it has Kylie, I shall attend to it as soon as I get home. Nice seeing you…” She wanted to say dear, but it suddenly struck her as something her mother would say, her 105 year old mother, if she’d still been alive, so she didn’t. Her voice just trailed off awkwardly, and she was too preoccupied to care.

“It is so not like you, Bunny Robertson,” said Kylie.

“Me? Oh Kylie, I have draws full, at home, of old laddered hose.”

“Nasty way to meet yous end, hey, if you knows what I mean? Ho’s. Down a ladder.” Kylie laughed like an emphysemic steam shovel.

“Kylie, you kill me. Where do you get them from?”

“Me better half, me brother…”

“I don’t really want to know… er… Kylie.” Bunny continued with her walk towards her car. Did she say her better half is her brother? Can never be too sure.

“Good seeing ya Mrs R.”

“Yes, Kylie, always splendid.”



Finally, she rubbed her fingers across the back fin of the Humber. The paintwork was smooth, like silk, thanks to Carl. One of life’s sureties, she thought, with her fingertips. She leant against the smooth duco and fumbled with the large collection of car keys. She flipped the silver lock cover up and inserted the silver-faded-to-brass key into the key hole. The door opened silently and smoothly. Bunny slid in on the smooth red seats. She smelt the leather perfume and felt safe.

She sat for a moment. She slid the keys into the ignition. She closed her eyes and listened to her breathing. Her bag and cardigan slid from her left hand onto the seat next to her, as her right hand reached for her knee, hitting the hanging keys first, “jangle”. She pulled the keys from the ignition and tossed them on top of her bag and cardigan. She rubbed her knee, it felt better.

She breathed in audibly.

She slid her stockings off, she giggled as she did it, she heard strip music in her head. “La-la la la.” She thought to herself, she had never been nude in public. “Running down the main street with your stockings off.” She’d never been skinning dipping with friends in mountain pools. She laughed at the thought, as she struggled to get her stocking clear of her toes.

Of course, she and Carl went skinny dipping, in their courting days. In the damn, down the back paddock, it was one of the few places she and Carl could get any privacy, out in the middle of farm land for as far as the eye could see. But, never other than that, with anyone other than Carl. She’d never been to one of those topless dance parties her grandson Felix and his friend Blake are so fond of attending. Something about foam. Her mind boggled at the thought. What would it be like, she thought? Once, with a school group one very hot day in Kalista, she and her friends bathed in the creek in their pants and bras, but that was it.

Nothing more. She peeled the end of her stocking over her foot with great difficulty and day dreamed about being arrested for public nudity in Tijuana, or some where exotic. And the look on Carl’s face when he comes to bail her out. She giggled. She looked over the drivers side window door frame like Foo. Her eyes look up and down the street.

Her knee began to feel stiff and restricted.

She hobbled to the doctor. Young Christine on reception fitted Bunny in between Mrs Jago from the hardware and her possible 7the pregnancy and Barry Baxter’s boils. “He’s got them on his…” Christine points to her bottom. “Arse. Nasty.” Christine grimaced. Bunny grimaced at the sour look on Christine’s face. The doc seemed distracted. He told Bunny it is just strained and bruised. “You’re not as young as you used to, to be doing floor plunges.” He bandaged Bunny’s knee like a kebab, just like the one's she buys late with Felix and his friend Blake, when she visits them in Fitzroy. It’s Felix’s place, but Blake just always seems to be there. The doctor told her to take Panadol.

Panadol? thought Bunny.

The Humber started up with its familiar, reassuring, burble. Bunny rapped a scarf around her hair. She slipped on a large pair of sunglasses. There was only one thing for it. She pulled the Humber out on to the road and she accelerated up the hill, the walnut and leather cossetted her as her English stead put in the heavy lifting. Across the top of the mount, Bunny accelerated even faster as she came around Hobbson’s Corner, where the road flattens off and heads across Jacob’s Ridge to Mount Potty. Most say that in the beginning, Mount Potty was so isolated that that is what it did to its first settlers, sent them potty. Most would say that it has nothing to do with the proliferation of hippy types who have made Mount Potty home ever since. The Humber took up speed with a hardly noticeable push in the back.

A slow car fast approached the scalloped front of the Super Snipe. Quickly the back of the car approached. Bunny checked her mirrors and with a hardly noticeable kick from her right leg, or a hardly perceptible movement of her right pinky, as she selected her right hand blinker simultaneously.

The English six cylinder immediately took up the call, with a dignified change to a higher gear, the smooth increase rev sound from the engine. The wind noise picked up, a surge forward, as the big sedan slide to the right hand side of the road. The emerald green indicator light flashed in the walnut dash. The Humber’s growl crescendo’d as the small Japanese hatchback slid across the passenger side windows, as though it was going backward. The Humber shot passed, it sashayed back to the left hand side of the road, its growl less and less noticeable the further and further it got away.

Bunny slowed momentarily at the large round about enough to swish, swish the Super Snipe through and straight on up Mount Potty hill. She accelerated hard down with her right foot. The Humber snarled again, as it took up speed. Bunny was hammering her old Humber, but it was not the first time, not the 10th time, that Bunny has had to track across country in an emergency situation in her old English sedan, and the Humber had never backed down from a challenge, the Humber has always been able to get through, with Bunny at the wheel. Bunny laughed to herself. Admittedly, some days it was just for cream cakes before the bakery closed. The Humber had always tackled every road and a couple of streams in her time, and she had never fail to march forward with the Buckingham Palace Beefeater-like genes that she possessed.

Bunny pushed her foot down on the accelerator. She shot up Mount Potty. Selby Gillup’s place is on the other side of the Mount, the north side, or something. Good for growing. Selby went to school with Bunny’s Neil, how many years ago? Selby was voted mostly likely to end up in jail, at school. And while Selby has done some time, he had generally done well for himself on his 100 hectares of land on the north side of Mount Potty. Better than some, she could name.

Bunny always had a soft spot for Selby. He was a good looking boy until he started to drink too much.

The S bend in the road, then straightening out to a straight stretch, the bird feeder in the tree. Bunny slowed the Humber down considerably. She put on her left indicator. She braked and pulled the Humber into an almost concealed drive way on the left. Stones hit the underside of the car as Bunny slipped onto the gravel drive. Bunny kicked the Humber up a gear and accelerated down the driveway. Stones flew out behind her. She’d never tell Carl, but she liked that sound. “Slow down, Jees, slow down will you woman,” Carl would wail from the passenger seat. Bunny did it on purpose, because she liked it, not because it pissed Carl off.

Selby had re-met one of the girls, FayAnne Heathcliff, who Neil and Selby went to school with at one of their school reunions, their 10th anniversary. Selby had accompanied Bunny to her 50th school reunion, because Carl didn’t want to go. Carl had no problem with it.

“That is what I am saying,” said Carl. “If you can hitch a ride with Selby, I’m all the better for it.”

“Suit yourself, Carl luv.”

“Carl,” said Selby, when Selby came to the door for Bunny

“Selby,” said Carl.

“There is golden syrup dumplings in the saucepan on the stove,” said Bunny. “Get the vanilla ice cream, and the pure cream if you must, from the freezer and fridge. The vanilla ice cream. Don’t wait up.”

“Oh, I won’t wait up woman,” said Carl. “I won’t.”

“Carl,” said Selby, as he followed Bunny out the door.

“Selby,” said Carl.

That was 20 years ago and Selby and FayAnne are still going strong. Selby found that elusive thing that half of the smarties who put him down in high school, by labelling him so cruelly, would still be looking for, happiness.

Bunny parked next to Selby’s beaten, what was once yellow, Toyota HiLux. FayAnne’s 4WD was no where in sight.

“Around here, Mrs R,” boomed Selby’s voice.

Bunny hobbled around to the front of the house, where the decking and pergola were, Selby was settled in a large out door seat, half in the shade and half in the sun.

“What have you done to yourself?” asked Selby

“What are you sitting here for?” replied Bunny.

“Well, I’m not as young as I used to be,” said Selby. “And now a days around midmorning I need to have a sit down and a cup of tea. The pot is hot and I have a spare cup?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” said Bunny. “And me?” Bunny flopped down in the next large round outdoor chair next to Selby’s. She pulled her sunglasses from her face. “I’ve done something to my knee, and it is now giving me billyo.”

“Go to the doctor.”

She pulled the scarf from her hair, which she shook free. “I’ve done that.”

“What did you do?”

“It was during my juggling the plates on sticks on my unicycle routine, I must have just caught it…”

“You poor… thing.”

“The doctors have been no help what so ever, so I thought there was nothing else for it.”

“You need a little of Selby’s Cure…”

“That is exactly what I want, hon.”

“I’ve got a cheeky young number in called Papua New Guinea Gold that I am trying out for myself, if you would like. Or there are all the usual home grown favourites.”

“Papua Guinea what’s it, that sounds like just the ticket.”

Enemy Lines

The coffee machine takes eons to make a cup of coffee, in the dark, morning light, with its start up sequence, and then the coffee making itself, then the shut down sequence, it takes forever. I shiver in anticipation, as much as the cold. I don't like spending too much time out in the open, no cover, distracted, you don't want to be seen, not being seen is the key to the operative. We don’t know why, we are never given the reasons for our missions. The coffee is of secondary concern. (ed note – tell that to the punters who are caffeine depleted) It is a sortie over enemy lines. It is a test, of your stealth-like qualities. It is an operative, a culmination of all you have learned. How invisible are you, after all these years of training? How low to the ground can you crawl? How much shit can you shimmy through and still come up triumphant? Be under no misapprehension, this is a test.

Now if I could just find the answer to this runny nose of mine, we'd be half way to winning the goddam war.

Tissue?

Ah, the 5 for $5 bag of boxes of tissues, beyond enemy lines, out in the wasteland, beyond where the bogi man can get you. The same Bogi Man who prowls the hallways at night waiting for you to stumble sleepy into the bathroom and piss absentmindedly, to be charged for crimes against the sleeping. Urine is to never be heard hitting water. As you are brutalised in your pyjamas in the dark, dragged unhanded, imaginary down the house stairs, to a waiting black bus to be taken away, sped off in the night with duck tape over your mouth.

“Ah! Oh!” Only to be woken fitfully as daylight shines in your window wondering if "that" really happened at all. I must stay asleep to remember. Must remember the key to creation. No, it is gone. Good morning.

The same Bogi Man who accompanies the bears materialising the moment you stand on a footpath crack. He can wear a clown suit just as easily. "You wanna balloon kid?" He is what is actually rushing up to your back in the dark at night. He is the serpent’s hiss. He is the creak in the floor. He is the hand pushing you in the back at a great height, and the voice that says, "Jump."

It is really distracting, you know, to have a nasal drip, drip, drip. You can't practise self defence with phlegm leaking from your hooter.

Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear.

Coffee machine. "Come on, hurry up. Come on, hurry up. Come on, hurry up."

Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear. Corner? Clear. Buddy? Sniff. Corner? Clear. Corner? Sniff. Clear.

The night time raids are the worst. Standing there, in the dark, one eye on the silhouette of the doorframe, one eye on the dark, where the toilet would be if there was any form of illumination, pissing on one of two white porcelain strips. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water. I'm lucky I am not pissing on the floor. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water. Don’t piss in the water.

We stagger our waking times? Or is that, we are staggering at our waking times? It makes no never mind, as long as each of the inmates is suitably medicated by Saturday night, booze or weed, it is deemed a good job done.

Vampire hours. I am living vampire hours, at present. When you get rid of 9 to 5, you get rid of any notion of day, or night. There is a permanent pot cloud over my window. The world is suddenly all 24 7, no differentiation is made. I found it a major personal achievement when I knew it was 6 o'clock in the day, 6.03 as my digital read out told me, to be precise, but I had no, actual, idea if it was am, or pm. You know, in the winter, with no day light savings, it is the same kind of light outside at 6am as it is at 6pm. It was a proud moment, I had reached nirvana.

Isn't it funny, that after all of the economic theories, a couple of industrial revolutions, all the captains of industry who told us they knew what they were doing, the two industries the tax from which are going to save the Western World are medicinal marijuana and gambling. [Did 9/11 ever really happen? A Chinese property developer bought the twin towers. He came up with the most cost effective way to bring them down. He sold it to his good friend George Bush over a cocaine party on the ranches vast dinning room table, as a model for national strategy, “Y’all finally be able to crush those beedin heart…"

“It’s bleeding.”

“What is?” George looks at his own hands.

“Bleeding hearts, it is bleeding heats.”

“Er, yes… um… lefty, human rights be moaners.” The Bin laden family threw in, they had some ideological reasons, Aeroplane fuel companies sponsored. And, of course, Wall Street. And the usual billionaires who think climate change legislation is not good for business]

I know what I’d be buying shares in.

Of course, guns and military equipment must be way up there too, why else do we keep having these blastard wars? But us mere mortals don't get to see the receipts for that stuff. That’s super rich territory, where billions are dealt. [And they get to listen to every word you say, one way or another]

And of course, the biggest search on the internet is for sex, by far.

The only thing I take for the shadows in the night, my military style coffee procurement in the mornings, or the ghouls that spring from footpath crack compromise, is mother's herb. The Green Goddess, as my trusty side kick, Susan To, names her. My BFF. She makes the world a beautiful place. She can't fix a dripping nose, so it would seem, but she is fabled to make a difference to the rest. The rain washing your cake away, whatever?

Susan To has gone overseas to fight world poverty, on one of her regular sojourns. She has left me unsupervised. I have denied myself nothing, can you tell?

All the sweet, green icing flowing down…er? What is my positive affirmation for today?

"Don't leave your cake out in the rain."

The Eleventh Book of The Monkeys Are Marrying

The monkeys are marrying

The monkeys wedding (correct)

The first three of many more


2016

Stacey Likes It Maggotted

What is that, last call at the Pokies Saturday night? 8 hours jangling away in one large neon sign, no sign of a clock, no sign of daylight, all the time being fed on goon. Maybe not quite goon, but those large plastic cups had been transporting large quantities of chardonnay and spittle. The punters have been sitting sloth-like long enough for the fleas to have settled, occasional foot rubs are out of sight, romance on the $1 machines. And now they have their attention span, such as it is, returned back to them, focus. Not even with “last call” being called, no, they don’t moved. Stunned rabbits in the headlights, “tune into the video screen and “we” will control your thoughts while you are gone” 1984’esque.

It takes Cash (yeah, ironic) to hit the off-switch and the multi sensory neon lights blink out. Black. And now the punters are all starting to scratch and look further than a 30cm radius to have that itch scratched. They wipe the chip debris from their cardigans, and the beer froth of their tashes, and lament they hadn’t taken the time for that latest bodyscaping routine they had been promising themselves for months.

Stacey was hoping she was going to run into Brad. The two of them were maggotted, last Saturday night, and neither could drive. Brad said he could fuck her in his dualcab VW ute, you know, real classy. And while Stacey was bashful to begin with, or pretended to be, even as drunk as she was, Brad proved what a big rig he was really control of, even if he had to take the condom off it to prove it. His cum dribbled down her leg all the way home in the cab, he hadn’t offered to drive her. “You understand, up early for work tomorra.” She just had a used tissue to dab the liquid away, before it got on to Rajesh’s car’s upholstery. Stacey was hoping for a repeat performance with Brad, but this time back at her place, not the back seat of the Amarock. Brad performed the stud service back at Stacey’s around 1.30am. It is half an hour back to her place from the pub which closed at 1am.

“I’m containing the possibility of future contamination, by always drinking from the same source,” said Stacey.

“You want his babies,” said her best friend Belle.

“Babies, I do not want,” said Stacey. Which was, actually, good, as she then remembered to take her pill, which she surreptitiously got from her purse as she and Belle chatted, and washed down with beer.

Stacey was happy that she’d met someone with who she didn’t have to worry about condoms.

“I mean, since we’ve done it already, and all.”

Stacey lit her St Moritz.

“I know his ex-wife, Kylie,” said Stacey. “We played netball together. Good people.” 

Jenny Wants To Be A Mum

Jenny, who had worked front of house since the Pokies opened, has been trying for a kid with her husband, Ray, for nearly all that time Jenny had worked coming to work. There have been the meet up time, “Now I’m the right temperature,” phone calls. “Quick, where are you? I’m ovulating,” phone calls. Ray has even been called out of meetings to “get plug into the little misses.” Ray has been on a “fuck schedule” for 12 months now. It has nearly killed him. And still no baby.

Then last Xmas party Jenny put it on Andrew, our young, single, athletic night manager, to have sex with her. She wanted to be a mother more than anything, and she wasn’t going to miss out just because Ray may, or may not, be shooting blanks. She seemed manic to Andrew, when she spoke those words.

Andrew even seemed sympathetic, asking all the right questions about how he might make his deposit. How does one go about it?

“I can’t do IVF again,” said Jenny. “Come on Andrew, be a sport, and give the old fashioned way a chance.”

Jenny had just been for her third return visit with Andrew. We can always tell. They think they are being so subtle, but the headshakes and the winks and their cars leaving the premises both heading in the same direction, the wrong direction for one of them. She got pregnant the first time with Andrew, from what she tells her sister Megan, so she is on a high anyway. But she keeps going back, as she tells her sister, she’d forgotten how much fun a 30 year old man was in the sack. “Andrew’s great. OMG!” Jenny could actually feel herself go weak at the knees at the thought. She exhales audibly. “My god, I’d forgotten just how… hard…” Jenny looks at Megan and laughs. “I recommend you get yourself…”

“I think you are enjoying this just a little too much, young lady.”

“Enjoying!” Jenny laughs out loud. “Oh my god, I just want him plugged into me 24/7.”

“Jenny!”

“Oh Jesus, it is true.” Jenny rubs herself around the neck. “What have I turned into?”

“What have you turned into?”

“What have I been missing out on?”

“You were only going down this path because of Ray’s malfunction.”

“Andrew can fuck on his tip toes with a rock hard nine inch cock, that makes me cum in tsunami-like waves of rapture.”

“What the hell do you think Ray is going to do if he finds out?”

“It is his malfunction.”

“Ray is understanding, but he is not that understanding.”

“No court would convict me,” said Jenny. “We have to get all female jurors. Would it be unethical for Andrew to sleep with all of them?”

“Jenny, wake up before it is too late.” 

My Monaro Is Bigger

Max, Lachlan and Jake head down the main street after the pokies close. They are looking for booze, they are pretty sure the bottleo is open until late.

Max has been talking non-stop about his Monaro, Lachlan has been lamenting the absence of his Monaro, not that Lachlan has a Monaro, he’d just like one. Jake just wants to get his cock sucked.

“I got a sun roof, and all,” says Max. “But those reversing sensors half don’t give me the shits.”

“I’ve got plenty of tools back home that could disconnect those,” says Lachlan. “It’s not that they are being used, or nothing.”

“Do you reckon we’ll see Fee? You reckon Fee will still be out with your sister, Amy? Your sister Amy still out? Do you know? Lachie?”

“But she’s smooth, she’s real smooth. You can bet you she is smooth.”

“I reckon she’d be as smooth as,” says Lachlan.

“Can you text Amy, Lachie? Can you text Amy, just to see where she is at.”

“Jesus! Jake,” says Lachlan. “I’ll fucken suck you off in a minute.”

“I nearly didn’t come out tonight,” says Max. “You know, account of the drinking, and all.”

“I don’t blame you mate,” says Lachlan. “I reckon I could be the same…”

“You know what I fucken mean?”

“I know what you fucken mean.”

“I don’t want to waste any driving time.”

“I don’t blame you, mate.”

“I’ve got my dream machine,” says Max. “I don’t want to waste any driving time.”

“I wouldn’t want to waste any driving time either, mate.”

“You can drive any where, everywhere, every day you get to drive some where,” says Jake. “I just don’t see what the big deal is…”

“We might meet up with Fee.”

“She gives the best blow jobs, like ever,” says Max. “Did I tell you?”

“You guys have not lived,” says Jake. “You guys have not fucken lived. You guys are jealous…”

“Fuck off Jake.”

“That’s it, I’m doing him, to shut him the fuck up.” Max grabs Jake in a headlock.

“If I had a Monaro at home, you can bet your arse I wouldn’t be standing here with you,” says Lachlan.

“Hey, wathca…”

“I’m going to suck your cock.” Max grabs forcibly at the front of Jake’s trousers.

“What the fuck!”

Max has Jake’s belt undone. Max pants with the desperation of determination.

“Max you homo…”

Max pulls at Jakes jeans, the button fly pops open. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

“Get the fuck off me,” wails Jake.

“Ah!” shouts Max.

Martin likes to smoke pot.

Martin likes to smoke pot. Martin likes to watch porn. Martin likes to smoke pot and watch porn. Martin likes to run. Martin is an athlete. Martin likes to run and smoke pot and watch porn. Martin takes his training as an athlete very seriously. Martin trains all the time. Martin likes to run, keep fit, smoke pot and watch porn.

Martin likes to win. Martin likes to look good. Martin is proud of the way he looks.

Both boys and girls like Martin. Both boys and girls make passes at Martin. Martin gets turned on when boys and girls make passes at him. Martin likes to flirt. Martin flirts way much more than he actually hooks up with anyone. Martin likes to flirt, run, look good, smoke pot and watch porn.

Martin likes the way his legs look. Martin likes the way he looks in undies in the full length mirror in his bedroom.

Boys on the athletics team hit on Martin. Those boy’s girlfriend’s hit on Martin. Occasionally, Martin likes to go home with a buddy and his girlfriend. Martin likes the feeling of having sex with a boy and a girl at the same time. That is what Martin likes. Otherwise, Martin likes to keep fit, run, look good, flirt, gaze at his owns legs, smoke pot and watch porn.

Martin likes to look of his own cock in his own hand. He marvels at what a great cock it looks as it slides through his fingers.

That is the paradox, to love yourself as a man, you must make love to your man’s body, and your favourite sex object must be a penis, generally your own. Martin likes to smoke pot and watch porn. Martin likes how smooth lube makes his cock hard. Martin wishes he could just pick up the joint from the ashtray without it getting covered in lube, while he is watching porn.

Step Mother

Sara-Jane had seen better days, I don’t think even she would disagree. Sara-Jane had four, grown kids, so she wasn’t completely incapable. Sara-Jane had a stepson, there is always a black sheep, as they say.

“Is it any wonder with the way that bitch treats him,” says Sara-Jane. “She uses him as a tool to get what she wants, poor little bugger.”

“Ah divorcing parents, surely not.”

“Not that he’s a little bugger any more.” Sara-Jane smiled. “Six foot two, what is that in metric?”

“How’s the bitch been?”

“Oh.” Sara-Jane squinted her eyes. “Don’t get me started.”

“I’m hoping that has finished you off on the subject, actually.”

“She couldn’t drop him off home last Saturday afternoon,” says Sara-Jane. “Because she had a date and her ladyship needs 3 hours to get ready for a date.”

“So, she is no spring chicken.”

“Oooooooooo no! Spring chicken? No,” says Sara-Jane. “A spring chicken she is not. Oh no!”

“I was thinking thirties.”

“Fancy doing that to your son, leave him to walk miles home because,” Sara-Jane drops her volume. “Because you are home washing the gash.” She laughed. “And no, not thirties. A good forty something…”

“So, what is the point of trading in then?”

“What, indeed?” says Sara-Jane. “She’s a fucken nightmare and I’m guessing she wouldn’t have been the one to be doing the trading.”

“How long has this been going on,” I say. “I remember I took them to the Monbulk police station once…”

“Did you?” says Sara-Jane. “How did we get you hooked in…”

“I don’t remember why…”

“I remember you doing it though.”

“The bitch didn’t have a car.”

“And all the other times we have had to run Mike around when Her Ladyship wasn’t up to it. Exhausted. Run off her feet. She forgot.”

“I remember all the times.” What I really remember is Sara-Jane bitching about it.

“But it just seems to make no difference when they go to court, nothing,” says Sara-Jane. “Our court system is broken.”

Frank’s Arse

Frank had that smile and, of course, those ears. I always thought those ears made him look adorable, pity Frank’s feelings weren’t reciprocated. I was on the edge of Frank’s friend’s circle, as he was on the edge of mine. If you had the two circles, the blue circle and the yellow circle, they would only intersect and turn green occasionally.

And he had the way his jeans fitted across his arse.

If ever you were in any doubt of the power of the lustrous bottom, look no further than Frank running up stairs. The arse that boy had on him. Sweet! Made men drool. That arse could send you insane. Frank, as you can tell, had the perfect arse. And on some levels, on many levels, Frank knew it and he used it to get what he wanted. He was not backward in turning backward if he thought it would help his chances at life.

So many guys wanted Frank’s arse in the worst possible way.

Even straight men took one look at Frank’s rear and found themselves sometime later plunging Frank’s hole unmercifully.

It wasn’t that Frank didn’t have a nice cock, he did, from all accounts. (I did get that one dick pic on gaydar) Frank had a very handsome cock, thick and weighty. It was just that Frank sat on a gold mine. His arse bought kingdoms to their knees, his arse tamed wild beasts so that they lapped gently at his, hairy wog… um? Circle. Brown circle.

Consequently, Frank spent most of his twenties staring at his ankles, from one angle, or another. In mirrors, or directly at.

He had good balls too. Hairy and dark crimson. He’s hairy, all wog boys are. He has a nice cock and balls. Heavy. Weighty.

Of course, I had to live vicariously on stories of Frank. Blue circle, yellow circle. I couldn’t call Frank a friend.

I once did an aerobics class, in Fitzroy, that Frank did. I hear it was during his “kept boy” phase. He used to do step right in front of me, in tight red footy shorts. He was a clown, the star of the class, he has a certain rare light. But he used to pull his tracksuit on right after class and leave. He never entered the change rooms. Pity.

Lucy Likes Charlie

Lucy liked boys. More specifically, Lucy liked Charlie. Lucy has liked Charlie for a number of years. Lucy likes Charlie a lot. Lucy likes Charlie when he is relaxed and all goofy-sleepy in front of the teli. Lucy likes Charlie when he is speaking to her parents, seemingly, without a care. Lucy likes Charlie when they go down the beach at the weekends and Charlie does a strip running into the sea. Lucy likes Charlie when he is dressed in a black suit and he is holding her hand at her best friend’s funeral. Lucy likes Charlie because he is chilled and free. Lucy likes Charlie when he is face first in her snatch.

“Bigger stronger taller,” Lucy would say. “That is why I like Charlie.”

But Lucy likes all boys. Lucy is, what you’d call, a boy’s girl. You know the type who are spoken of disparagingly by the sisterhood, when the sisterhood doesn’t think they can hear. Lucy likes nothing better than to be drinking beer in the front bar with all the lads. Who are usually the boyfriends of the before mentioned group of girls, the girl’s girls, who hate her with every fibre of their beings. Lucy likes male attention. Lucy flirts to get male attention. This usually sends the girl’s girls into hypoplexiture, completely oblivious to the boy’s girl, Lucy.

Lucy has been faithful to Charlie since the day they met, she has never strayed. Some may say, that it wouldn’t always appear that way, but it is true. Lucy gets on well with the boys. And the boy’s like Lucy. Charlie’s mates know that Lucy is Charlie’s girl. However, the mates of the mates don’t always know that.

“If there is ever any trouble,” says Olivia. “You can bet Lucy will be some where amongst it.”

“Oblivious,” chorused Chloe and Olivia.

“She doesn’t mean to and all,” says Chloe.

“But somehow she does,” says Olivia. “On some level.”

“Guy friends of guy friends aren’t to know,” says Chloe.

“She’s a flirt.”

“She’s a flirt.”

“She doesn’t see it…”

“I don’t think she truly does.”

“And look at her.”

“Gorgeous.”

“Is it any wonder.”

“Is it any wonder?”

“Just sometimes.”

“Normally as peaceful as…” Not a metaphor cometh.

“As peaceful as…” Not a metaphor cometh, neither.

“As peaceful as church.” There you go. They laugh.

“What you don’t know what goes on behind closed doors?”

“The parish is a hot bed…”

“A hot bed…”

“According to mum…

“My mum…”

Olivia and Chloe cackled. 

Jeremy Went Into The Priesthood.

Jeremy went into the priesthood. Jeremy finished year twelve with an excellent score. He then entered the priesthood and studied at night. Jeremy was 18 when he went into the priesthood. Jeremy had an inkling that he might be gay, so the priesthood seemed as good a place as any to go and sort a few things out.

It was like being on camp, the whole time. I’m camping with other boys all the time. I’m living in a house full of men.

There were 4 new priests. There were 4 guys Jeremy’s age. They were his year group, if you like. They all seemed a little light-in-the-loafers to Jeremy. Which oddly, gave him a pulse, in his cock. Jeremy’s homophobia turned him on. Whenever Jeremy discussed gays or queers, he got oddly animated, squirmed around in his chair, got handsy with the other panellists, seemed to have big eyes at the very mention, in a too interested kind of way. After too much communion wine on a Sunday morning not having eaten any breakfast, Jeremy could be bordering on indiscrete at Sunday lunch.

Jeremy found that Thomas, one of the other interns, was, of course, interested in helping-out-a-mate down the commemorative garden, at, or around, midnight. Later, Jeremy and Thomas got brave and had sex in each other’s rooms, and nobody has cared or noticed.

And just for all you questioning types out there, Jeremy and Thomas pride themselves on being versatile, for the plebs amongst you, I’ll break it down (my bulldog is having a full wash right in the middle of my bed, as I write this, which is just a little distracting, let me tell you) they are equally at home playing the “girl’s part” when they are having sex, as playing the “boy’s part.” (Shiver all over, I hate it when I have to do that. I should just say, “I don’t know what you mean,” when I am asked that question, and then just stare back blankly.)

Jeremy and Thomas will both have theology degrees when they finish. They don’t think getting a parish is going to be a problem.

Surfie

Scott had grown up. Right before our eyes, it would seem. It was like yesterday, I swear, that he was a little blonde kid. Now, 22 and with all the bravado that comes with being beautiful and 22 years old. If you liked those slick-backed, dark matinee idol looks then nah, Scott wouldn’t be the guy for you. But if you like that Aussie beach bum, goes to Rome back packing and lands a modelling contract kind-of-look, then you might find him a bit of all right. Strapping, is often a word used to describe Scott.

“He’s a well built lad,” would so often come out of the mouths of letting-it-all-slide middle aged men.

Scott is the kind of guy that everyone notices. “Nothing, and I tell you nothing at all, on the romantic front in my teens,” Scott would often lament. Nobody noticed Scott, so the bigger clown he became. I think that is how he developed his cheekiness. But sometime after his  21st  birthday, when his looks grew to match his bravado, everyone started noticing Scott.

Scott noticed the people noticing. It was a bit overwhelming to start with, he said it was when he learned to appreciate his ugly duckling teen years. But then Scott got his rhythm. Insert bikes and peddling analogy here. He thought people were taking the piss, initially. It took him a while to trust that it was true. It took him a while to take it all seriously. But then the girls began to notice.

A good brain. A good pass into uni. And then more than halfway through an eight year architecture degree, then other punters began to notice how fine Scott had become.

He’d joined the gym at uni. Then he’d joined the water ski team. This had been his routine for his first few invisible years, to fill in his social life. So when he was coming back for 5th year all of the good living and exercise had begun to pay off, and the dates soon started coming, it spun his head for a time. His “hot nerd” crew had been keeping up the sporty life style, they had been exercising along side Scott, and they relaxed now being more than half way through their schooling. And they were popular too, mostly for their summer weight routine. “Healthy living, don’t knock it,” said Scott. They kept it up, they all went to the gym in a pack.

They discovered drugs together, in their mid twenties, final years of study. They kicked it up a notch. And they all experimented with sex together, doof doof music, cafes, strips joints, Sunday night dinners. They cried and they laughed and they still passed every year of study despite all the partying. They were post fear. They were successful now, they just had to wait for time to catch up.

Scott still surfs down at Wye River, where his parent’s still have a house.

Impish Smile

Angus has grown up. He was always an angelic child, black hair, blue eyes, destined to grow up into an angelic adult, which he has. From his impish grin, to his sexy new short haircut, to his beguiling eyes. Stoner eyes full of joy, when caught off guard, his musical chuckle when he realised he had lost the thread, give away, look back to me. Truly handsome. Melt a little, you can’t help it. It’s his time. His easy way, his muscled guns, his handsome face, his pert arse, his full of grace. Angus has grown up.

I caught a glimpse of his jockey elastic, when he bent to pick something up, and felt like a dirty old man. I’m old enough to be his father, literally. But he’s old enough to be a man. I don’t give him any more than a smile, don’t worry, and my attention when he is in front of me. Why would you not want to? 

I bet you he has a perfect cock. Hard and beautiful. Hang towels off of it, that kind of stuff. But, I don't think about him like that.

He’s really nice, too. Smart. Pretty. Interested. Deep voice. Easy going. Nothing is too much trouble. Like he means it, like I believe that he means it. His style. His handsome face. And the grace, he has, as he walks away. And a motor bike too, can’t help but polish his allure. And that's how I think about him.

But my best friend’s son? Is that a bit pervy? Oh, I don’t know why I say that, I’m just saying he is a nice kid. And when I say kid, he is twenty two, so don’t start wrting letters just yet. I’m just his friend, I don’t go into some dirty pervy old uncle routine when he is around.

I cringe at the thought of a maggotted Shane leaning across and saying to Rachel lasciviously, somehow reminiscent of Les Paterson, “Josh tells me how hot your son is.” Slobber, slobber.

I turned to Rachel and said, “I believe I said handsome.” As I believe that is what I said. When I think of Angus I think of his charm and his smile, I don’t think about his, um, er, you know...

I still cringe at the memory of Shane slobbering.

And it doesn’t hurt that he is handsome.

Caramel Cookies

I rewarded myself with caramel cookies. A reward for what? you may well ask.

“A reward for what?”

Didn’t I just say that? I just said that. By his look I could tell he was serious.

“Ah, er, for a job well done.”

“What job?” He asked in such a matter of a fact kind of voice, that he gave the impression that he had no understanding of how the world works at all.

“What job? Um?” Does he not understand any thing? “For the day, for a day well done.” Of course.

“What did you do?”

He’s got another question. I’m guessing he’s got loads of them. “What do you mean? What did I do?”

“Yes, for the day well done, for which you earned a reward, that you treated yourself to caramel cookies. What did you do?”

Pedantic little mister, now isn’t he. What did I do? “I got through it, that is what I did, I got through it. Isn’t that worth reward enough?”

“But what did you do…”

“I got through it!” Perhaps, that was a bit snappy, but I had to put an end to his infernal questions.

“I see,” he said.

He was a little taken a back, I could tell. I did a little head nod, just for affect. I didn’t quite mean to, but there it was. Involuntary, kind of. He pursed his lips as though he had something more to add, but his lips shut tight on him.

He mouthed the word okay.

We held each other’s gaze by staring off into the distance, maybe it was the future we were trying to see.

Of course, caramel seems to be the flavour of the moment, sweet caramel, burnt caramel, salted caramel, glorious caramel. Who would have bet the odds of caramel making such a big come back? Who would have guessed?

It is just sugar, cooked cleverly. There is no such flavour as caramel. It is a wholly man made taste. Really just sugar, as I think I have already mentioned.

Bunny Goes To The Shops

Carl was trying to get out the door.

“Just the things you want,” said Bunny. She was changing her house shoes for her street shoes in the laundry. “Text them to me and I’ll look at them in the supermarket. I’m dropping into to see Father, oh, what’s his name? At St Benedict’s, so I’ll be a little longer.”

“You want me to do what?” said Carl.

“You said you looked in the pantry, just what you saw that we needed.”

There was silence.

“We need a whole car load full of stuff, from my reckoning, Bun,” said Carl. “You’d better go.”

Bunny enters the kitchen. “I’ll have you know that this isn’t my idea of pulling equal weight, Carlo.”

“I can’t talk to you when you get all Politically Correct on me,” said Carl, complete with parenthesis and a stupid face. “I’m going out to work.”

“What is it that you do out there in your shed, now we are both superannuated?”

Good thing Felix bought her an iPhone for Xmas, now Bunny always had an up to date shopping list.

Bunny reverse parked the Super Snipe in one fluid motion, on the causeway. It was a good spot. She’d had a bet with herself for years, about “getting her in” in one go, ever since that first year that she got the car and Carl called her out on her parking skills. How many years ago was that? She slid the gear stick into P and pulled on the hand brake. She collected her handbag and her cardigan in one hand. She patted the dashboard, my Swiss watch, she always thought. She let her finger brush across the bur walnut facia. She sniffed in the bouquet of leather, she had never tired of that smell for the entire time she’d had the car. Carl had called her, “stupid, or what?” when he heard her refer to the Super Snipe as Swiss more than once. 

“Swiss my arse,” he’d say. “Good Coventry stock, this!”

“It’s precision, Carl,” said Bunny. “That’s what I am referring to.”

“Well, why don’t you say that,” said Carl. “Instead of saying all this namby-pamby stuff that no one understands.”

“She’s like my Swiss watch, Carl,” said Bunny. “She never lets me down.”

Car rolls his eyes.

She walked the short distance to the shops, her high heals making a clack, clack, clack sound. She wouldn’t normally wear high heals shopping, but she’d just been to the church, the Catholic Church, about playing piano for a wedding. She didn’t know what she thought about these Catholics, (her mother always told Bunny that she was frightened of the Catholics because the nuns weren't allowed to speak) Bunny had heard plenty of catholic nuns speak, she shook her head. But she figured it was all still just piano playing. It was only the Catholics that went in for hell now a days, she was sure. She went over slightly on one heal. They wanted her to play something called, The Rose, apparently it is very big now a days. Bunny guessed the bride meant on the charts, but Bunny didn’t ask.

Bunny tripped on something she didn’t see. “Oops!” she said out loud. It took her breath away, the suddenness of it. She reached out to steady herself, pushing the palm of her hand against the shop window making a squeak.

She looked back at the raised, cracked concrete footpath, and thought about all those stories she’d ever heard about people suing for millions after falling down in the street. She looked down at her shoes. She looked at the cracked concrete again. She rubbed it with the toe of her shoe.

She shook her head. She just remembered she left her phone on the dashboard of the car. Carl had tried to call her, she didn’t really know why she bothered. She thinks he had the phone upside down. Felix’s buddy Tank has offered to wire the Super Snipe up hands free, but he hasn’t done that yet.

She turned back in the direction she’d just come, thinking about the phone, and her foot tripped on a cracked piece of footpath she’d just looked at. “Oh stupid…” She went straight over, she was already somewhat off balance. “Ah!” All she probably felt was a hard thud to the side of the head, as it hit the pavement. A coward’s punch from the universe, or perhaps from God, her Anglican God, displeased she’d agreed to play for the nuptials for the “mickeys,” as her mother would have said. Perhaps, she was wearing two different types of thread? Had she agreed to work on the Sabbath? It is doubtful she would have realised what happened, the world went black. Was this some kind of eternal joke about the afterlife?

Iris, Bunny’s life long friend, further up the shopping strip, heard a sound like somebody being punched in the stomach followed by a winded cry. She instinctively headed in the direct from which that sound came.

Bunny woke to a feeling of cold against her face, her skin was touching the concrete. Where was she? People were gathered around her, her friend, Iris, was looking down at her, like a “wet” spaniel. Everything was quiet, then the street noise kicked in again. Suddenly. It was a start. She sat up. Her knees and hands stung from the smallest minute particles of gravel stuck in her skin. She looked at her palms.

“You tripped over you own feet, Bun.” Bunny’s friend Iris’s voice boomed. “I saw you go down, luv.” Iris laughed. “Here.” Iris handed Bunny the missing shoe. 

Her bag was on the grass above her head. One foot was cold, as one shoe had come off one of her feet, she just kind of fell out of that it, she could still feel it.

 “I saw the first one, I,” said Bunny. “I turned back to the car to change my shoes, and the second one…” she shrugged

“Now give us one of your hands, I'll help you up,” said Iris.

Bunny refused Iris' hand and tried to get up herself. Bunny’s arm hurt, as she pushed herself up off the ground, she must have used it to break her fall. The arm gave way. She suddenly realised, as she was on all fours, that her glasses were sitting diagonally across her face.

“Giddy up, luv!” said Iris. She whooped with laughter. “You’re not at home with Ray now, darl.”

"Hush, Iris," said Bunny. "You and your dirty mouth"

Bunny took Iris' hand, begrudgingly. She felt giddy as she stood, again. Her hands and knees stung from gravel rash. She pushed the hair out of her eyes. She hated herself for correcting Iris on this point, but it had to be done. “Carl,” said Bunny.

“I’m Iris. Did you hit your head?” Iris chuckled.

Bunny straightened herself. “You said Ray.” Bunny spoke through gritted teeth. “If I was on the floor with anybody… playing horse and jockey,” she rolled her eyes at the absurdity of what she was saying. The absurdity that she had to come out and say it. “It would be Carl.” Even Bunny could hear herself hissing. “I would be on the floor with Carl.” She looked around to see if anybody was in earshot.

Iris ushered Bunny to a nearby outdoor street seat.

“I’m alright.”

“Just sit for a minute.”

Bunny sat on the seat begrudgingly. Iris flopped next to her. The morning shoppers drove backwards and forewords, up and down the street hunting for carparks. The sun shone, the birds cheeped.

“How long has he been dead now?” said Iris

“Who, I… Ray?”

“Yes, I forget now sometimes, just some days, it seems like forever. How long it has been, Bun?” said Iris.

“Oh…” said Bunny.

“I don’t forget, exactly, but sometimes it is easier for somebody else to say it.”

“Five years,” said Bunny.

“Five… long… years,” said Iris. She sounded like she had no more energy for the question. “Five long years. I miss him as much now as at any time…”

“Oh, I?” Bunny put her arms around her friend. She felt so sorry for Iris, at the same time fearing she may well be in that situation sooner than later.

“I thought time was supposed to heal,” said Iris. “I thought time healed grief…”

The two women hugged.

“It is just something we say,” said Bunny. “Nothing really helps, but who is going to want to hear that?”

The two women laughed, nervously, consoling one another, in the gentle morning light.

“I feel like I have been cheated my final years, Bun.” Iris fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief.

“He was taken too soon for sure, your Ray.” Bunny kissed the side of Iris’ head. “Ah, hon, what can I say?”

Iris dabbed at her eyes with a cream handkerchief. “It’s just…” said Iris. Her voice trailed off. She shrugged. “How life goes, nothing to be done.”

“No,” said Bunny. “Nothing to be done.”

Bunny got to her feet, she couldn’t suggest it and fail to act one more time. “Ay oop,” said Bunny.

Iris stood up. “Oh Bun, it’s good to be alive.”

“Wouldn’t be dead for quid’s.”

The two old friends hooked arms. “This way luv,” said Iris. “We should get those knees looked at.”

“Don’t fuss,” said Bunny. She had to get to the butcher. Her right knee hurt, everything else felt fine. But her right knee, was giving her Larry Do, as her father would have said. Bunny limped noticeably. As she put weight on her right foot, testing it, her right knee buzzed with a painful ache.

“Does it hurt, luv?” Iris pointed to the recalcitrant knee.

Bunny had tried very hard to step normally, she tried very hard to conceal the damage from her friend. And that was the best she could do, it was hopeless. If she just got back to the car, she could sit for a moment and gather herself, give it a rub away from prying eyes. She could take her stockings off and use the first aid kit she kept in the glove box. She didn’t want to have to call Carl, she wasn’t going to admit to falling down.

“Just a knock, it will be right as rain,” said Bunny. “I just have to go back to the car.”

“I’ll come with you.”

No, you won’t. “Oh no… Iris, that won’t be necessary.”

“Just so you are all right.”

“I’m all right. Look.” Bunny did four star-jumps, they nearly killed her, far too ambitious. She didn’t let that show either. But at this point, childbirth could be endured, she didn’t have time to listen to Iris talk about Ray… Neil was coming home for tea and Bunny was already behind schedule. “Iris…” she wanted to say, get a hobby. Cooking. Sewing. Knitting. Patchwork. Leadlight. What do you think everybody else does? Get therapy. Go on a cruise. Have an affair with a younger man. That grounds man at the bowels club would fit the bill. Bunny laughed to herself. The laugh gave way to wondering what she would do… then she shuddered again when she realised it could be approaching. Not that Carl was sick, or anything like it. He was in good shape, actually, for a man of his age. But neither of them were getting any younger, that was an immutable fact.

“See.” Bunny made jazz-hands. Everything hurt. She lent in and kissed Iris. “See you soon, hon.” She told herself to turn on her left leg, which she remembered to do, and she made a clean get away. Bunny was quite chuffed with her own accomplishment. She told herself that that was smooth. She put all of her weight on her right knee and she didn’t limp, it hurt like hell.