A DAY OUT FOR DES (THAT’S ME)

Well just before Christmas my guardian Pauline Conolly took me to Sydney as a special treat. Now  she loves  going to the State Library, but I don’t  (boooooring!!) I was  pretty p…..d off when we ended up there (sorry, I promised I wouldn’t swear. That’s not really swearing though).  I thought I’d be going to my favourite  chocolate shop!

We went up  some stairs in the library and Pauline said,  ‘Look Des, we have to follow a trail of gum leaves.’  Well gum leaves are great if you’re a koala, which I’m not.  I quite  like trees though. Anyway, off we went.

Follow the gum leaves.

Oh, another one.

Do you know what?  May Gibbs was an Australian artist.  She wrote  and illustrated lovely books all about our  own flora  and fauna….that’s flowers and animals in case you don’t know.  At the end of the gum leaf trail there was an exhabish, sorry exhibition of her work.  It was to celebrate her most famous work of all, a book called Snugglepot and Cuddlepie.  It was first published a hundred years ago.

There were some great pictures on display, especially the ones  with  kookaburras in them.  I have a  kooka mate called Toffee,  so I really liked these ones.

Toffee, me, and my girl Milly.

Miss Gibbs drew a lot of  pictures during World War I to cheer up the poor soldiers.  They were very clever and sweet.

And this  one was so funny.

Fancy eating snake for breakfast. They love snakes.  An old lady  Kookaburra organized lots of little Sister Suzy  gumnut babies to knit  warm socks for the troops.  Look,  she  made a special pair from spider silk for her  soldier son……

Christmas bells and bare bottoms.

THE ‘BOTTOM’ OF THE MAY GIBBS STORY

You know what I liked best about the exhibition? (don’t tell Pauline)…..there were  bare bottoms! Hahahaha  I wrote a whole story about bottoms once. I got into trouble, but I didn’t give two hoots. If you want to read it, click  HERE The exhibition is on until February if you want to go. But now I’ve written this fabulous  story  you might not want  to bother. You could just go to the chocolate shop instead. I wanted to go there  after we finished at the library, but we had to catch the train home.

Ooooh!

When Miss May Gibbs died she left all her money to help little  children. She was very special, wasn’t she. Well she lived by the harbour in Sydney and  Pauline said she will take me to see her  house  one day soon. I’ll tell you about it  IF SHE EVER DOES.  Unfortunately Pauline does not always keep her promises….sad but true!

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Goodbye,

Lots of love, Editor Des   xxxx

 MOMENTS IN TIME, BUT NO LONGER  IN  MEMORY

Pop psychologists are always urging us to ‘Live in the moment’.    I do try to do this, especially when it comes to enjoying my garden and the wonderful  bird life around me.  However, as a writer  on social history and nostalgia  I also spend a lot of time thinking of the past.  As I grow older, childhood memories become increasingly precious.  Sixty years on, the  joy of Christmas and  all those other seasonal celebrations at home and school remain  clear, and yes….comforting. They form a special bond between my relatives  (especially siblings) and childhood friends.

To a large extent, memories form our identity.  But what happens when the loss of long term memory creeps up to meet short term memory loss?    My mother-in law  Jeannie now lives in this dreadful void.    She  is painfully aware of her deficits. She regularly complains  that she has lived too long. ‘There is  just nothing left for me now’, she says, and  it is difficult  to argue with her. Her days are filled with confusion and anxiety. Sometimes she ring me up and asks……’Pauline, what should I do now.’   If it’s after dinner  and her carers have made their last visit I tell her she can go to sleep.  I wonder if she remembers the past in her dreams?

She  does enjoy the weekly concerts at her residential home, but once heard, the music is instantly forgotten.  Nor does she  have the capacity for anticipatory pleasure.

Since  a recent hip fracture she can barely walk, and the physio sessions are painful and frustrating. She snaps at her carers, then apologies and feels terrible. We (and they) comfort her and  tell her it’s OK, but I know how much it upsets her. The only good thing about memory loss is that she is not troubled for more than  few minutes.

Thankfully,  she can still enjoy the pleasure of  a  loving touch.  And her eyes continue to light up at  the sight of me, and especially of  her son  Rob  (yes… she still knows us and remembers our names).  There is pleasure  still in  a puff of perfume, and  the sight  and scent of a flower.   But they are such fleeting moments  in her world of confusion and anxiety. She has lost the art of conversation, although  innate politeness sort of  gets her through.  ‘And how are you both?’  she asks constantly.  After eighteen months residence  in her care home  she introduces us repeatedly  to every member of staff;  ‘Have you met my two darlings?’

All her life she was a home maker and provider.  She was still cooking for us when she was in her late  eighties.  Now she desperately  wants to share her food with us, even when she is in hospital.   We end up eating the  ice-cream  served with her dinner,  and taking home  bananas and  little sachets of honey she squirrels away for us.

CHRISTMAS 2016

I try to find Jeannie  Christmas flowers that will survive the long journey from our home in the Blue mountains, to Sydney…where she lives. Buds are good, because she can watch them open.  Asiatic lilies are festive and she enjoys  the different containers I use.

On Christmas day itself  she wasn’t at her best. I’m not sure she realized quite what  and why we were celebrating.

Love and security from Jeannie’s beloved son and Theresa, one of the many kind staff members.

It is difficult to find suitable gifts for a 93 year old.  Even the old standby of confectionery is  out. For years Jeannie has eaten very little chocolate.. This is partly because she is convinced it’s unhealthy and partly because she likes to keep and treasure anything we give her.  When she moved into care we found chocolate novelties  she had been keeping for nearly  twenty years.  But bizarrely, she ate an entire plate of chocolates at Christmas lunch, and scarcely a mouthful of the beautifully  presented traditional meal. Of course nobody cared…she was content and temporarily  free from anxiety.

Table top dancing with Editor Des.

Her greatest joy of the day  came from my little  bear, Editor Des. He has been part of my life for so long that Jeannie has him in her tiny memory  bank along with us.

Comfort in a cuddle.

 JEANNIE AND THE LAMP

Soon after Christmas I celebrated my birthday, and Rob took me to see the musical Aladdin.  After the performance  I bought a souvenir ‘gold’  magic lamp.

Next morning I took it  around to Jeannie. Did she remember the story of Aladdin and the lamp?  Yes, she did….  vaguely, when I reminded her,  ‘OK, there are three wishes, and you can have one. Keep it secret and make sure  it’s a very important wish.’

At first she simply kissed it and clutched it close, eyes closed with the intensity of her longing.

‘You really need to rub the lamp to make it come true, Jeannie.’   I said gently, which she did, most reverently.

I hope the genie was listening.

I know what her wish was, even though she didn’t tell me.  I do hope it comes true soon.

This is the second article I have written about Jeannie and her journey.   My own darling mother died  before memory loss became  an issue, although I suspect it was waiting in the wings.  My sadness at her passing is mixed with relief that she escaped this horrible affliction.  Here is the first part of  Jeannie’s story.

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Hello from Editor Des,

                             MY MUSHROOMS

Well my guardian Pauline Conolly wrote a story  about fungi the other day  called Fungi: Flowers of the Fall .  So I thought I would do a better one. Mine is about very special, magic mushrooms. I think you will love it (and them…and me!)  quite a lot. She also stole my best photo…..just saying.

On second thought I think they might be toadstools.  That means you shouldn’t really eat them, but I think I might try some. I wouldn’t eat this dear little one though, because my girlfriend Milly really likes it.

This is my friend Gnomey. He is enjoying a long stay with me  in the Blue Mountains from Putney….that’s in England (by the river Thames) . Gnomes are related to elves and that’s why they like mushrooms and stuff.

Some fungi are really tiny.

Other mushrooms are nearly as big as dinner plates.

My pal is dwarfed by this big one.

We walked up the lane near my house  in Blackheath and found a proper fairyland.

I wanted to sit on this, but my bottom was a bit big. Gnomey climbed up instead.

Here are more tiny little mushrooms. There are growing on the trunk of a big gum tree.

Doesn’t my friend gnomey look perfect beside this bright toadstool? He says he might make it his home. This the pic Pauline stole from me; completely unethical.

I gathered a nice selection of mushrooms  for my dinner.  Pauline told me not to, but I hardly ever take any notice of her. Some people cook theirs, but I decided I would try mine  au natural (that’s French)  like people do with oysters.

They tasted a bit funny to tell you the truth…….I might finish this story  later if that’s OK.

OMG!!

Do you know what?  I hate mushrooms, toadstools are terrible and fungi is foul! Only buy them from the shop is my advice. Can  you see that the paw I picked the wretched things with is still very swollen?

I may be here for some time!

IT TOOK ME THREE DAYS TO RECOVER. DO YOU LIKE MY STORY? IF YOU DO IT WOULD MAKE THIS GHASTLY EXPERIENCE WORTHWHILE…WELL NEARLY.

THE LITTLE WEBSITE THAT GREW!

On April 10 this website clicked over  to 100,000 visits.  Maybe not a  great deal by some standards, but amazing to me. When I began in late 2012 I had no idea about  SEO (search engine optimization), effective tags or stop words. It must have taken me twelve months to reach 5,000 views. By contrast,  the last 10,000 have come very quickly. There are now 233 published articles on the site. I usually post weekly, but with my biography  of Dr Victor Ratten well behind schedule this will have to change.

I love checking the search engine terms that lead people to my articles. I often think I must be the only person in the world with a recipe for laurel berry jam.  People who google ‘nude women bathing ‘ must feel a bit let down when they reach my innocuous story of a sojourn in the German  spa town of   Baden Baden. And a variety of  dubious search terms relating to bottoms end up  on Editor Des’ humorous  piece, ‘Bottoms Up’.

 READERS’ FEEDBACK

One of my most regularly visited articles is,   SS Waratah, Australia’s Titanic  The  comments left  have been as interesting as the story itself, especially from relatives of those who were lost in the ship’s  mysterious disappearance .

Messages left on the story, Church Strauss Syndrome; A Rare and Baffling Condition have  sometimes reduced me to tears.  I was diagnosed with this incurable disease in 2012, but am in  full remission.  Sadly, most of my fellow sufferers are not. All I can do is offer some  hope, direct them to support groups, and   increase  public awareness  of the syndrome.

It takes longer to   leave a comment  on a website than on facebook or twitter. Those who consistently take the trouble to do so are hugely  appreciated. You know who you are and I thank you.

UNEXPECTED OPPORTUNITIES

For an author, a website can lead to  all sorts of opportunities, such as  invitations to speak at conferences or on radio. Public speaking always alarms me, but it does get (slightly)  less nerve wracking with experience.    A site also provides a platform for backstories relating to  published or future work  and it is a great research tool.

MY ASSOCIATES

Editor Des, has contributed quite a few  articles. They are invariably  cheeky, (usually at my expense) and  whimsical  (although he probably doesn’t know what that means). Thanks though, Des.  Like me, he  often writes  about our Blue Mountains village of Blackheath and on the subject of gardening.  It grieves me to admit that his most visited piece is, Pauline Conolly’s Garden; the Shocking Truth. OMG Des, how could you?

My partner Rob (aka Dr Bob) is our final proof reader and unintentional critic. He is notoriously hard to impress, so if he laughs Des and I know it must be pretty funny. If he says, ‘Oh, that’s interesting’, we know it must be! Rob is also my  go-to Mr Fixit when I get into a muddle.   What a star!

Rob, the harshest critic in the world.

GUEST POSTS

I have been privileged to host guest posts on a wide range of topics, from working in the Antarctic to  book reviews, busking, baking, and being robbed in Barcelona. Many thanks to every one of you.

I have always had a strong connection to the UK, which this website has increased.  In extraordinary circumstances, a story led to me meeting my lovely first cousin Annabelle for the first time….. in England! And how special to have lunch in London with  Sabrina, a descendant of my convict ancestor Solomon Shadbolt’s wife.  I  have  connected  with so many of my Larcombe, Shadbolt and Singleton relatives all over the world.

A couple of years ago  the site was selected for inclusion in PANDORA, the National Library’s archive of websites. It was judged to be of permanent research value, and a significant  contribution to Australian social history. Oh dear, I’m not sure what they make of Editor Des’s stories, but I feel very honoured.  This validation of my work led to the creation of the Facebook group Australian Social History, which is approaching 1,000 members.  Please feel free to join.

What do my readers seem to love the most?   In no particular order; humour, food, mystery,  and nature.

The articles that have created the biggest spikes in my visitor numbers, are the piece on  Church Strauss Syndrome and Enough to make a Mother Weep, the tragic story of my ancestor Catherine Bryant and her daughter Eliza.

Links to a website  from other sites are pure gold.   I particularly appreciate a link from Worcestershire Walks to my literary pilgrimage around Great Malvern. It is a self-guided walk around the sites of interest in my first  book, The Water Doctor’s Daughters.

Social media experts suggest that  it’s  best to  have a particular theme for a website, but I’m afraid mine reflects my curiosity  and interest in  all manner of things. To me it’s a bit like running  a little newspaper.

I have rarely ventured into the areas of politics and contemporary  social issues; there are far more knowledgeable commentators than me.  However, sometimes  staying  silent is impossible.  Bullying and the tragedy of dementia  are topics I  felt I could not avoid. The triple whammy  of  Brexit, Trumpism  and  Australia’s Pauline Hanson led me  write;  And I Thought I Was Only Left-handed.

It is a great privilege to host a website; one  I hope I have never  abused.

AS ALWAYS, YOUR THOUGHTS AND COMMENTS ARE WELCOME.  HOWEVER, DON’T FORGET TO COMPLETE THE LITTLE ANTI-SPAM SUM, OR YOUR WORDS WILL VANISH INTO THE ETHER.

Me.

Hello, here is a rather sad story about my Halloween pumpkin.

I forget when I planted the seeds, and also what kind they were. And maybe I was a bit late getting them in.

Our bees seemed to have left when the lavender and thyme and all the Australian native trees finished. I decided I would have to pollinate them myself. You can do that you know.

Then one morning my guardian Pauline Conolly and I went out to see if the flowers were ready and do you know what? There was a bee buzzing in  the pollen and flying from flower to  flower.   Oh me of little faith! I apologized most sincerely to Mother Nature.

Mother nature to the rescue.

From then on it was all systems go. My word a pumpkin grows fast. Yes, just the one.

Nearly as big as me!

Staying up in the rain to keep the possums away.

A strange blue aura has appeared.

DEEP CONCERN

I had been measuring my pumpkin every day, so I was really upset when I realized it had STOPPED GROWING!!

It wasn’t nearly as big as the one I’d seen in Pauline’s gardening books. So very disappointing.

 TRYING TO AVERT DISASTER

My friend Milly (well  OK, she’s my girlfriend)  suggested we could use some powder she ordered on the internet. We spread it all around the vine and then Milly rubbed some into the top of the pumpkin.

I can’t say I had much faith in the stuff. I thought I’d try something with a bit more oomph! Like a few hundred volts of electricity.

A big charge!

OK, looks ready now.  Not that it grew much bigger. Looks a bit battle scarred because I tried to write my name on it. Haha…that’s a joke.  I think a bird sharpened his beak on it.   I  wanted to enter it in  the Royal Easter Show, but  Pauline said I’d have to put a bit of filler in, and paint it.  That would be cheating of course.

When I saw the pumpkins at the Show I could understand what Pauline meant.  They were humungous, and as perfect as a baby’s bottom. I wouldn’t of stood a chance, sorry…I wouldn’t HAVE stood a chance.

I know when to admit defeat.

AUTUMN HARVEST

Here we go, you have to leave a bit of the stalk on when you cut your pumpkin, so you can carry it. Haha, no…so it doesn’t rot.

Ready to make the final cut.

I made a bed of autumn leaves for it on my trailer. Milly was ever so proud of me.

How to impress a girl.

Not perfect, but all my own work.

Almost too heavy for my trike!

Pity it turned out green instead of orange, but I was looking forward to making a scary Halloween lantern. I was just starting to carve out a  zigzaggy mouth when Pauline said, ‘Éditor Des, Halloween isn’t until the end of October.’     Can you believe it?   #!*#*^#&*#!   That’s what happens when you are adopted by someone from the wrong hemisphere.

For heavens sake! I’ll have to find a recipe for soup.

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THE BIGGEST SHOW IN TOWN

Last week we  went to the Royal Easter Show in Sydney.  It’s a huge fair, and  farmers and gardeners take their produce along and win prizes. Well some of them win.

I wanted to enter  some of my vegetables, but Pauline Conolly  (she’s my guardian) said  they weren’t  quite up to the mark.  Totally disappointing. I suppose they will all end up in soup.

When I saw the ones on display I sort of understood.

The famous District Exhibits of produce.

 GO ME…SHOW JUDGE!

But do you know what? I was invited to help judge the honey. It made me feel a bit better.   I know quite a lot about bees and I eat a lot of honey. That’s why they asked me.

Such an honour.

From then on things went downhill.  You see, I have a lot of  trouble with  other animals.

Now you would  think that after this  incident Pauline would not subject me to anything scary. But truly, she has the sensitivity of a ….of a block of wood. We went to the animal interaction pavilion (against my better judgement ).   I said quite firmly  that all I wanted  to do was feed the little lambs and goats with chaff. Well you could buy tiny  pots full.  And  guess what happened? This;

Is that a little goat? I don’t think so!  And can  you  spot  any chaff?  Not a morsel.  Oh, and see  that lady’s jeans in the background?  Yep, a goat munched them. Well of course when Pauline let go, the  wretched goat ran off and I fell on my head. Then it doubled back and tried to eat my jumper. There is a photo of our skirmish, but I have chosen not to publish it.

The show is like a fair as well and you can win things on the sideshows….fluffy dogs and stuff  like that. I wanted to win something for my girlfriend Milly.  So you drop balls down a clown’s neck and if they fall on the right numbers you win. I couldn’t reach high enough so Pauline did it for me and I won a big nothing. If you are a child you get something anyway, but I’m seventeen. That’s too old.

Only one good thing happened after that. I was allowed to  have a show bag full of  stretchy fruit lollies.  While Pauline and Bob watched the wood chopping I ate the whole lot. The one in the picture is a sea horse. A little boy in front asked if he could have one, but I said no, he couldn’t. That’s why he looks a bit miserable.

I love show bags.

It was an eventful day at the show. I’m not sure  if I’ll go next year.

On a related matter, would you like to read the story of my  ‘quite good’ pumpkin? It’s HERE.

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WHO GIVES A FIG?  I DO!

Anyone who knows me will be aware that I adore trees. I live in the beautiful Blue Mountains of New South Wales, so autumn and spring are very special. However I still love Sydney; for the harbour, the museums and theatres, but also for it’s amazing fig trees.

There are the  Moreton  Bay figs from Queensland, and the local Port Jackson figs. The birds don’t really have a favourite and nor do I.

Feeding cockatoos make such a mess as they rip branchlets off to eat the fruits. Look  what one has done near the Corso at Manly.  Surely a littering fine is in order.

For the culprit, just look up!

My associate Editor Des makes a trip to the Sydney Botanical Gardens each year to picnic on ripe fruit….well the ones the birds and fruit bats don’t gobble up.

The best picnic…ripe figs and only me to eat them.

The bats are discouraged from roosting in the trees at  the Gardens, but it’s hard to move them on. Sometimes the staff resort to  playing loud music and banging rubbish tin lids together.

The fruit bats love to hand out in the fig trees at Sydney’s botanic gardens.

You can see some lovely specimens of fig on the harbour-side  walk from Mosman Bay to Cremorne Point;

You might spot brush turkeys foraging under the trees.

This  may be my favourite  fig tree,  and one of the oldest. It’s growing in Camperdown cemetery. I came upon it when researching the story of Australia’s Miss Havisham. Isn’t it a thing of wonder?

This ancient fig  is in Camperdown cemetery.

Those buttressed roots cannot be contained. Here is the result of placing a fence in the path of fig tree;

You cannot stop a fig with a fence.

In the lead-up to the 2000 Olympics at Homebush Bay, a huge number of mature figs were transported to Sydney  from Queensland and the New South Wales  border. It was quite a sight to see them being taken by barge up the Parramatta River to Olympic Park. They continue to provide much needed shade at sporting events and the Royal Easter Show, which moved to Homebush  from its original home at inner-city Randwick.

The arrival of the largest transplanted fig,

Fig trees can look a bit, well….creepy when the aerial roots start to grow. This one is down at Balmoral Beach in Mosman.

When Sydney hold its wonderful Vivid Festival each winter the trees become part of the show. The photos below were taken in the Botanic Gardens.

Magically lit!

A magic ‘faraway tree’.

Did you know that figs are among the easiest trees to bonsai?

A wonderful example.

I must say  mine looks pathetic in comparison, but it  might improve with time….and if I could work out how to make the leaves smaller.  My moss is OK though, because I live in Bleakheath (sorry, Blackheath), where it rains a lot.

I think these trees are fantastic, in the true sense of the word.

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My superb portrait by artist Mardi Storken

A story about birds by me, Editor Des

WOT’S MORE SCARY….A COCKATOO OR A KOOKABURRA?

Do you know what?  A  kookaburra  called Toffee visits our garden every day.  At first I was a bit scared of him, I thought he might start pecking  my fur off for his nest or something. Also, I once had a scary  encounter with some  other big Aussie birds called sulphur crested cockatoos.  It left a few emotional scars on me, little Jack and my girlfriend Milly (that’s her in the pink stripes).

Ambush!

You lookin’ at me?

Anyway, I  decided that the only thing to do was to confront  Toffee and let him know that I am the boss of Pauline Conolly’s  garden…..and that’s that! It was the scariest day of my whole life. Well, except when I was left  behind in a London hotel.

Funnily enough, Toffee seemed quite a nice fellow, so I thought the others might like to meet him.  Little Jack ran away and hid, but Milly  agreed.   She wasn’t COMPLETELY keen, but I am very persuasive.

At first she hid behind me, and just peeked over my head.  Thankfully there was no terrifying kookaburra laughter  or she might have freaked out.

Milly meets Toffee from a safe distance.

Next day  I suggested she stand right  in front and say ‘Hello  Mr Toffee Kookaburra’, when he arrived.  Oh dear, it was a disaster. As soon as poor Milly said hello  he  looked her right in the eye…..and she fainted dead away!!

Ooooh!!

Poor sweet Milly. The kookaburra got such a fright that he quickly apologized and flew off to his favourite gum tree. Looks a bit ruffled eh?

I tried to revive Milly, but she was all floppy and white in the face. In the end I had to go and get my tricycle so I could take her inside.

Trikambulance to the rescue.

Wake up!!

Luckily Pauline wasn’t home or  might have been in big trouble (again). Not that it was really my fault of course.   I put Milly to bed and gave her a nip of my whiskey. That seemed to do the trick.

Dr Des.

Oh well, as Pauline always says ( or was it Shakespeare?)  All’s well that ends well. Except…..now there’s two!!

Toffee and mate Taffy.

YOU CAN LEAVE ME A MESSAGE IF YOU LIKE.

Hello, this is Editor Des from the Blue Mountains.

Well I went to the Winter Magic Festival in Katoomba. Pauline didn’t want to take me because it gets a bit crowded, but I had a special assignment with the Blue Mountains Council, so she had to.  Haha. We went on the train.

Off we go!

One of my special  jobs was to help Bernie the Blue Mountains fireman.  We are very good friends. I helped Bernie tell people not to throw their cigarette butts out the window of the car, because that might start a big bush fire. Yes, even in winter.

Here I am working  with Bernie, the fireman.

There was another special duty I was entrusted with.  People get excited  at the festival and they tread on the little planting bowls. It squashes the flowers. Do you like the sign I made?

Protecting the flower beds.

Well also, some people smoke, which is very silly.  Alright, I puff a bit myself sometimes, so the sign is a bit not right. I don’t put my butts in Pauline’s flowers though. I hide them in the wood heap.

Hard at work.

The Council  didn’t actually pay me for my work, which was a disappointment. But they said I could go to the Gingerbread  House and have whatever I wanted. Wow, I love that place.

I love gingerbread men.

It was hard to choose something from their menu, but in the end I chose the Hansel. Well I don’t think they had a Gretel. My ice-cream sundae had popcorn on top, covered in honey.  It was Manuka honey, which is VERY healthy I believe. Do you know what? I was floating on air!

It was so yummy I levitated!

Pauline was right though, it was a bit crowded really, especially if you have short legs.. Goodbye.

Katoomba Street gets a bit busy.

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GONE  FISHING MATE

Hello everyone, Editor Des here. You wouldn’t think that fishing could lead to big  trouble would you? But  believe me it can!

Well I was riding around the garden  one day when I thought I spotted a fish in a big water bowl.  I asked my guardian (Pauline Conolly)  if I could have a fishing rod. Now  she is not a very obliging person generally speaking,  but  to my surprise she  made me one.  Mind you, I  don’t think she really believed me about the fish.

My very own fishing rod.

Took me a while to get the hang of casting.  Take my advice people….hooks go in quite  easily but it’s very hard to get them out.

Oh crikey!!

It was a hot day, but I found a kerchief in Pauline’s drawer and made myself a hat. I can be really enta….enterprising sometimes.

Pretty sure I spotted a fish in here. Here we go. Fishing, fishing… OH YES!

Got him!

Not bad eh? It’s called a potteri ceramicus I believe, and is closely related to the European Carp.  I could take its fishy gizzards out and have it for my lunch.

The sun hat that led to my downfall.

I was just getting him off the hook when I heard a VERY angry voice say;  ‘EDITOR DES, WHAT HAVE YOU GOT ON YOUR HEAD??’    Just an old hanky, I said.

OMG, turns out its a historic relic, rather like Pauline herself. How was I supposed to know?

Chill Pauline, It will iron out OK!

A LITTLE HOLIDAY SEEMS AGOOD IDEA.

Come on Millie, time for a mini break in Sydney until Pauline calms down. No wonder I still smoke. It’s the stress.

Time to absent myself for a while.

DID YOU LIKE MY FISHING STORY?

 MORE THAN JUST A CHOCOLATE CAKE, MATE!

The Lamington Cocktail

If there is one culinary icon in Australia that ‘out-icons’ the pavlova it is  surely  the lamington.    We all know that the wretched Kiwis claim the pavlova (which is a lot of rubbish),  but in 2014 Aussies  were horrified to read in the Guardian Australia  that they  had also claimed OUR lamington. How could this be?    Apparently the Kiwis were insisting  that   the proof  lay in a water colour  painting titled   Summer Pantry  by  landscpe artist J.R. Smythe,  dated 1888. It purported to show a half eaten sponge cake covered in chocolate and coconut. Hmmm, see the circled cake on the sideboard…..what do you think?

Pity were wasn’t a calendar on the wall! Might have  said April 1.

The New Zealanders,  according to  the newspaper,  claimed that Lord Lamington, future Governor of Queensland, visited their country  in 1895  and was mightily impressed when he was served a ‘Wellington’ .  It was described as;  ‘a double sponge dessert, dressed in shavings of coconut  intended to imitate the snow capped mountains of New Zealand.’

The article created enormous angst, although it’s worth remembering that it was published on  April 1st.  Try looking up  that artist J.R. Smythe ,  Oh the relief!

The truth is that Governor Lamington’s  chef, Armand Galland,  created the cake. There are several versions of how this actually  occurred. If you want more information, click HERE

The stamp of authenticity…… depicting three Lamingtons.

Since Queensland was the birthplace of the lamington there must have been great sadness when they were once  banned from Toowoomba’s Methodist Church Industrial Exhibition.  In 1953, conveners had to cancel the lamington competition and substitute rainbow cakes. The problem was that coconut from New Guinea was suspected to have been infected with typhoid.

Housewives all over the country  were instructed to destroy  their supplies of dessicated coconut.

I swear that the best lamingtons in the whole world are made by the delightful Hak , at the Cremorne Bakery in Sydney.  The shop is located in the shopping centre below the Park Regis Hotel  on Military Road.  Priced at a very reasonable  $2.60, one is definitely  big enough for two people. He also makes them in miniature, to serve  free with take-away coffee. Hak is from Cambodia, which proves that a background in the Country Women’s Association is not a requirement for making superb lamingtons.

Hak’s King of the Lamingtons

A lamington makes everything seem better.

Can the  lamington be improved in any way? Well, yes. You can split them and put whipped cream inside, but that is just so indulgent I really cannot recommend it.

The inimical Barry Humphries said that the lamington  should be placed on a doily and served on a Tupperware plate. Oh Barry! Dame Edna would consider that very common.

Lamington, lamington we love you. You can’t just eat one….you must have two.   By the way, did you know there was a Lamington Anthem?

And speaking of April Fools Day.

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I must begin with the most charming letter imaginable; written by the British author Sylvia Townsend Warner to her dear friend Alyse Gregory, in response to the gift of a sweet, wooden match box.

A small work of art.

THE  AUSSIE MATCHBOX

The familiar Redheads matches were first made in Australia in 1909  by Brymay, in Richmond. Sad to say, they are now made in Sweden.

There was scarcely an aspect of life in  this country not affected by World War II. Rationing was in place and even  the humble matchbox had to undergo changes to support  the war effort.  Due to limited supplies of phosphorus,  the Federal Match Company  produced boxes with only one striking side. The back of the box was used to advertise war bonds.  There was even a suggestion that  the matches  themselves should be made with a head at each end, to conserve match wood.

The patriotic matchbox

GREAT FOR  COLLECTING…. AND VERY  COLLECTABLE

In the early days, entomologists from the Australian Museum  would take empty matchboxes into the field when collecting specimens.   With a bit of protective padding they made cheap and serviceable  containers.

Boxes of bugs at the Australian Museum.

The boxes themselves became collectable when they were printed with colorful images . During the Great Depression young  boys would hang around the docks in port cities offering to buy matchboxes from foreign seamen. The going rate was a penny apiece.

A nice set.

MATCHBOX FUN AND GAMES

Give your children  a few empty match boxes and they  will entertain themselves for hours .

My siblings and I used to print the letter B in the bottom of a box. We would then trot about annoying people no end by asking if they wanted to see our pet bee. Oh dear!

Here is better trick  published in a  1930’s newspaper;

This little trick is quite easily prepared. Place a few used matches in a matchbox and then fix it up your  sleeve by  slipping an elastic band around your wrist. Remember it must not show. Now take an empty box in your hand, and go to a friend with it. Shake the box  so that the one up your sleeve rattles,  then hand  him  the empty  one to open. He will be so surprised to find no matches.

Matchbox container for  a child’s sewing items.

Quaint creations

,

x

You could furnish an entire dolls house with matchbox furniture and many of us did when we were young. I made armchairs and tables, but never a writing desk. It’s pretty cool.

A wriggly snake is simple to make too;

It seemed that  disposable lighters would spell the end for matches and their useful boxes, but they are hanging in there.  I still use them to light my  wood fire.

Sometimes Editor Des lights the fire.

In conclusion….a confession.  During my misspent life as a teenager, a matchbox was the cause of one of the  most embarrassing incidents  of my life. I was attending dancing lessons, and lit a cigarette between the waltz and the foxtrot. Not knowing what to do with my match, I thrust it back in the box. Unfortunately it was still burning, and a few seconds later the entire contents ignited. I held the box until 20 odd matches burnt themselves  out. How the cardboard did not catch light I will never know.

I LOVE TO HEAR FROM READERS. IF YOU DO LEAVE A COMMENT, REMEMBER TO COMPLETE THE ANTI-SPAM SUM BEFORE YOU PRESS  ‘SUBMIT.

Hello, Editor Des here. Well today I went to my favourite restaurant in the whole of the Blue Mountains.  I took along my camera to show you what it’s like;

Do you know what? It’s in an old church, so I think it might be specially blessed.  I don’t know who the lady is, but she certainly has her hands full.

There are two soldiers guarding the entrance doors, but I found them quite friendly.

Me with a smiley sentry.

Well, before you can eat lollies and  gingerbread and stuff you have to have a proper lunch, which is not so good.  However, mine was a bit like a picnic, so I really liked it. My guardian Pauline Conolly said I should have ordered wholemeal bread, but I ignored her.  There is a limit to this healthy food nonsense, don’t you think?

A very healthy lunch.

If you look high up in the old church windows you might  be lucky enough to  spot a mother rabbit and her baby. And when you have eaten all your ham and cheese you can have a very special puddingy  drink. Mine was called a Hansel, and it made me float on air, mate!

Rabbits hiding up in the high windows.

It was so yummy I levitated!

There are so many yummy things here, not just gingerbread. I might buy my girlfriend Milly  a Gingerbread House kit for Christmas, then I could eat it, hahaha.

A whole wall of lollies to gladden the heart.

The lolly wall. Can you see me?

See those packets of ‘Fads’ in the photo below ? Pauline said when she was little they were called something else and they are a type of cigarette.  OK, I’ll take a few of those then.

How am I ever going to decide what to spend my pocket money on?  Well those Fag,, sorry Fads, look interesting.

So  dear people, my final word is;

Oh, nearly forgot to show you the Gingerbread Men. Two  had escaped and were  wandering around Katoomba. It’s a wonder someone didn’t eat their sugary heads, or their sweet legs.

I love gingerbread men.

GOODBYE FROM YOUR DEAR FRIEND AND RESTAURANT CRITIC, EDITOR DES. XXXX

PS: Here is the website for the Gingerbread House.  Tell them the famous…ish Editor Des sent you.

In 1918 an article in The Sydney Morning Herald reported on brooms being hand-made in the Blue Mountains village of Blackheath;

The brooms are manufactured under the most primitive conditions, the machine for binding them together being home-made, and it is contended by the maker that with proper machinery a much better and more durable article could be manufactured. The maker of these brooms collects the stiff, spiky grass that grows in abundance on the mountain-side, and in his hut turns it into the finished article. The grass tree [also] provides him with the raw materials for making hand whisks, so popular in hairdressing saloons.

The maker was Mr William Murphy, who had arrived in the Blue Mountains as an elderly man shortly before WWI. He was a bachelor, and chose to live the life of a hermit. He built himself a stone hut at  spectacular Perry’s Lookdown, in Hat Hill Road.

The view from Perry’s Look-down

It was here  he gathered the stiff  blades of the grass trees to make his simple brooms and whisks.

A grass tree growing near Mr Murphy’s old home.

To bind the grass he invented a  quirky  apparatus using  pulleys made from cotton reels. The result was an effective ‘straw’ broom, more commonly made from millet.

William Murphy, the hermit of Hat Hill

A simple abode

BROOM MAKER AND BIRD LOVER

Of course, Mr Murphy was never really alone. He had a great love of the area’s wildlife, and befriended the native birds and animals. Soon, word spread and tourists would arrive at dusk to watch him whistle up  possums, wallabies and the colourful mountain parrots.

Crimson rosella.

King Parrot

At the end of  January 1919 there was a huge bush fire in Blackheath. It raged through the Hat Hill area, fuelled by the  oil rich eucalyptus trees. The roof and entire contents of the hut were destroyed, but  old William was found sheltering in his private ‘shower’, a little waterfall nearby.  Unfortunately, many of the creatures he loved so much were destroyed in the fire. The blackened landscape was a constant reminder of the trauma he had endured.

Local people helped rebuild the hut, and he was given a horse, to make his journeys into Blackheath village easier, but his  spirit was broken. He left the Mountains soon afterwards. The old fellow died in Sydney, in 1927, aged 81.

The remains of his stone hut can still be found  near the carpark at Perry’s Look-Down

The ruins of Mr Murphy’s hut.

There  is a delightful podcast  and a song about Mr Murphy, written  by historian and folk singer Jim Low. CLICK HERE

MY OWN BROOM, INSPIRED BY MR MURPHY

I decided I would have a go at making a broom from the grass tree in my garden. It was quite easy.  I just grabbed  a handful of the blades, snipped them off, and secured them with an elastic  band. Then I  pushed a  stick handle into the centre . A very unsophisticated  version, but it worked pretty well.  I could sell a few at the Blackheath Farmers’ Market, especially in the lead-up to Halloween.

Grass tree broom.

The residents of Blackheath complained of one major shortcoming with Mr  Murphy’s product. When the grass dried out, bits started to  snap off.  Regrettably, I can confirm that this is true.

Here is the ‘Murphy Broom’,  ready for a test flight by Editor Des and his friend Milly.  No, it did not end well.

Test flight of the grass tree broom

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We Australians love gum leaves.  Expat Aussies can be reduced to tears by a whiff of their aroma.  Campers in the bush  put them into billy tea……for the flavor, but even more for nostalgia.

Billy tea…note that there are plenty of gum leaves around.

Our  property in the Blue Mountains was named The Gums by a previous owner, so it’s no wonder I’m a bit obsessed with the leaves.

To suddenly see one lit by sunlight is a joy…..even if something has eaten a bit out of the middle for its lunch.

Back lit by the sun

The colours in them can be magical too. They remind me of stained glass.

Gum leaves are adored by insects!

They can also by transformed by mist and dew. The new leaves contrast so beautifully against the older grey.

Taken on a misty bush walk at Blackheath.

Gum trees are so resilient; they have to be in our harsh climate.

New growth after a bush fire.

Leaf curl spiders use them to build their simple homes……or  in the photo below, as a foundation  for something more impressive.

Home sweet home for a tiny spider.

Cicada drawn to at least part of a tree.

I use dried ones  at Christmas time as gift tags.

Gum leaf gift tags.

These ones are a bit more festive. Of course, arty types could create something really special.

A bit of glitter for my neighbours.

My creative friend Jen Eddington from Tasmania dyes fabric using all manner of natural material, She produced  this wonderful gum leaf design.

Gum leaf print by Jen Eddington.

MUSIC MAKERS

When I was a child I could extract  a whistle from a gum leaf, but I’ve lost the knack. Some people can actually play a tune.

In  1926 The Governor  of New South Wales, Sir Dudley de Chair was touring in the north of the state. The Wingham Chronicle gave the following account of the welcome he received;

Here at the roadside an army of 30 aborigines waited for the Governor’s car, waving flags.  As Sir Dudley approached a native jazz band burst into the National Anthem played on gum leaves.

After this it gave a recital, producing a disturbing yet not unpleasant musical effect by blowing on gum leaves. Indeed, if this band could be placed in a theatre it would cause a sensation. It completely outbuzzes the saxophone, and reduces the oboe to the rank of a tin whistle. The black musicians played tenderly and very solemnly, visibly affecting many spectators.

An Aboriginal gum leaf band actually recorded a concert for the radio during the war.  You can see how the leaf is held against the bottom lip. I might have another go.

.Today, one of the best known gum leaf players is  Jeff Willmott.

The maestro!

Here is Jeff’s  fantastic video on how to choose the best leaf and how to play. You don’t even have to remove it from the tree; a rare example of a  living musical instrument.  Time to give it a go myself.

I picked out what I considered a good specimen according to Jeff’s advice . But do you think I could make it work? No…not a damn peep, no matter how hard I blew. My associate Editor Des is still trying, but honestly….. he’s wasting his time!

Try, try, try again!

Oh well, I can still enjoy the beauty of the leaves. I picked up the ones below while  sweeping the paths in my garden. Notice the little galls on some?

Picked up around my garden.

Keep smiling!

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Me!

My guardian Pauline Conolly grew a special rose called Hot Chocolate. ‘Come and smell it Des’ she said. So I did, just to make her happy.

It did smell like hot chocolate I think.

I took a deep breath of the perfume and then…wham!! A  *#@!*!*# bee stung me right on the nose.

It was truly horrible. Naturally I showed admirable bravery though, because that’s just how I roll. My girlfriend Milly took the stinger out.

Nurse Milly to the rescue.

I can’t help wondering if the sticking plaster was strictly necessary. Made me look a bit silly.

Oh Good Grief

A ROSE IS BORN

Do you know what? A few days later that  floribunda Hot Chocolate rose produced a crimson bloom with white flashes. Completely different to all the others on the bush.  We could hardly believe our eyes. I think Mother Nature  felt sorry about the bee sting and made something wonderful just for me.

Parent and offspring.

Yes, it was a new rose! Pauline said it’s called a ‘sport’.  She has named it Editor Des. (I asked her to, just quietly.) Well I think I might have somehow pollinated it with the help of that bee, so it’s only fair really. Just think, one day I (well my rose) might be exhibited at the Royal Easter Show….or even at the Chelsea Flower Show. A gold medal winner for sure, wouldn’t you say?

I would say ‘Every cloud has a silver lining’ , but that’s a cliché and I’m an editor. You would never hear me utter something so trite.

In all its glory.

As for  the bee sting…..all is forgiven. I love roses now, especially my very own one. Pauline says it won’t be official until I proper…propagate it and register it, whatever that last bit means.

Anyway, I have planted a cutting in a little pot. I’ll keep you posted.

EXCITING UPDATE   March 3 2018………My rose cutting has struck! Can you see the new foliage by Froggy’s knee?

Oh wow!

By the way, I used to have a thriving kitchen garden.  Click here and see what you think.

Oh…..one last thing. I have my own facebook page. Please help me get more likes than Paddington and Pooh.

At Blackheath Station.

As someone who frequently writes on crime, a tale of death on the Indian Pacific Railway came to mind when my partner Rob and I booked our trip from Sydney to Perth. I even checked Dr Google to see if anyone had written a murder mystery inspired by the journey.  No…….. nothing.

The only article I could find remotely connected to violence  was a piece written in July 1985 by Mr Ian Warden.  He had made the journey from Canberra to Perth and back. The train was  a bit run down at the time, and not well patronized.  $120,000 pounds had been allocated for a study into its problems. Mr Warden commented drily; ‘…that $120,000 would be better spent, methinks, on bribes paid to passengers on the Indian-Pacific in return for their promise not to tell anyone what the train is like once they get off the train.  It appeared from his article that relations between  disgruntled passengers and  harassed staff came close to murderous  on occasions.

Thankfully the journey is now quite the  gourmet experience, beginning with drinks and canapes on the platform at Sydney Central.

Here we are at Central Station ready to board.

Even Editor Des was provided for.

It  actually takes Rob and I  four hours to make any progress towards Perth.  We first have to travel to Sydney from our  Blue Mountains village of Blackheath,  board the Indian-Pacific at Central, then travel back up the Mountains. How odd it feels  to shoot  through  little Blackheath on our way west.

Whoosh! There goes ‘Bleakheath’.

This is such a long train (3/4 klm). Sometimes  we sweep around a bend and can look back at our end bit, so to speak.

Oh, there’s the rest of us!

Popular spot.

One of Mr Warden’s complaints was of being served instant coffee, well thankfully that has changed. Rob could even have his extra hot, double shot flat white.

A bit of work before dinner.

Think I’ll have the lamb and the beef thanks.

Poor Mr Warden’s experience of dining on this train was a bit different;   ‘The meals themselves are very substantial, but owed a lot to things that come in tins, and were very plain and unimaginative, with the exception one day of an imaginative ‘Weiner Schnittzel’  made with pork instead of veal!’ It is the sort of food that is served to shearers or to armies, or to growing gels at boarding schools.’

We have to leave on a tour  around  Broken Hill at 6.0am.  Better get some sleep……And yes our beds are all ready.   That’s odd, there were chocolates  on the pillows a minute ago  I wonder what happened to them ?  Oh well….. Zzzzzz

Look Milly, chocolates!

MORNING DAWNS ABOARD THE INDIAN-PACIFIC

Oh good grief.  Look at those strange apparitions as we approach Broken Heel, sorry…Hill.  What on earth is in store for us?

UFO’s ??

To be continued………

Click here for BROKEN HILL TO ADELAIDE.

CONTINUED FROM – Westward Ho!-on the Indian Pacific

TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWING….

Up in time to see the sunrise as the Indian-Pacific approaches the outback mining town of  Broken Hill at 6.00am.  Indian Pacific passengers have a choice of excursions here and Rob and I are going to see the Living Desert Statues.

We are slightly ahead of schedule, so our driver Ray (a fifth generation Broken Hiller) takes us on a tour of the town.  It’s fascinating to see the little timber and corregated iron cottages featured in Pro Hart’s paintings…. and some of the old pubs. Incredible to think there were  70 odd pubs in Broken Hill’s heyday.  The Palace Hotel was the setting for much of the unlikely hit movie, Priscilla, Queen Of the Desert.  That movie is the reason I can only think of this place as Broken Heel.

Priscilla and co. in more sensible footwear

Priscilla and co were here.

High on a hill  outside town we are welcomed with a  pre-breakfast treat of fresh fruit, savoury muffins  and choc/fruit slices.

At your service.

The sculptures here  were done by  a variety of international artists.  Apparently the ancient local rock was far too hard to carve, so giant blocks of softer stone had to be brought in….a daunting task.

I loved this  horse’s head best, probably because we found out a bit about its background.

Our guide Ray used to ride his horse Ben up the hill for modelling sessions.

It was actually modelled on Ray’s horse, Ben. The iron bit was created  by a local blacksmith.

As a gardener  type  it was great to get a closer look at the plants we have been seeing through the train windows….no idea what any of them are though; salt bush etc., I guess.  And this shrub with interesting seed pods.

I wonder what this is?

Plenty of wildlife;  small kangaroos, emus, and wild goats (spotted by eagle eyed Rob).  Ray tells us  he was  practically raised on goat meat, shot by his miner father.

ON TO ADELAIDE

Leaving Broken Hill  the red, outback landscape  changes to one of grain fields, especially wheat.  It has just been harvested.

Stockpiled wheat when the silos are full.

The food aboard the Indian Pacific is dangerously delicious. Oh dear me!

Great food aboard the Indian Pacific

Dessert time on the Indian Pacific

My associate Editor Des and his stowaway friend Milly  are running amok, especially when Rob tries to take a break from eating and chatting to the other passengers. Discovered they are stealing and hoarding the chocolates left for us every night. Editor Des  already has a suitcase full.

Good grief!

Mischief

Next stop….Adelaide.

x

TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWING

OK, all packed for our trip across the Nullarbor on the   Indian Pacific train.  It’s a VERY long train.

The true necessities of life on the road, sorry…rail.

I hope two cases are allowed.

Had to catch the train to Sydney first.  For heavens sake…..why couldn’t it pick us up on the way????   Pretty poor service considering my status.

At our village station.

Nice little snackies and drinks on the platform before we left Sydney for Perf, sorry Perth.

A little pie especially for me. That’s more like it.

Do you know why I had two cases?  Well I sneaked my girlfriend Milly on board.  My guardian Pauline Conolly was horrified. Hahaha, she had to buy an extra ticket, or we would have all been made to get off immediately.

Sitting quietly on the train. Don’t want to push my luck.

When we were right out in the desert I was locked up for a while, because I had a little puff of a ciggie  in the dining car.  I think Pauline made them do it to teach me a lesson really.  As if I cared.  I’ll stop when I want to.  You would think she would realize that by now.

Waiting for bail.

It was shocking how much people ate on this journey.  I mainly ordered the puddings.

This looks quite……healthy. I’ll pass I think.

Oh yes! Quandong parfait, mate.

Every night the cabin steward put chocolates on Pauline and Dr Bob’s pillow.  But they didn’t ever know, because I snaffled them straight away. Hahaha. I’m still eating them.

I had to throw my duffle coat out to fit these in.

Here I am with Pauline in the outback, at a little place called Cook. She had me by the scruff of the neck in case I ran away.  As if I would….I know when I’m well off, just quietly.

Me and my guardian, Pauline.  Do we look a bit hot?

Here we are with my other guardian, Dr.Bob.. I’m afraid I was stuffed in Pauline’s handbag.  I spend far too much time in there and it’s not a pleasant place.  I’m always getting stuck in the head with a biro, or finding  a lipstick case up my jumper.

I am in the photo, but you can only see a bit of my leg.

Well we finally got off in Perth. Pretty cool hotel room with the city skyline. It was in St. Georges Terrace, where a man called Alan Bond used to have his own tower block. Mr Bond was a hero because he helped win The America’s Cup.  But then he went a bit wrong and he wasn’t a hero anymore.  Life is often like that I find.

Mr Bond used to own the building  in the middle with the slanty top bit.

Sometimes we had what’s called a working breakfast. I think Pauline was just playing on Facebook though.  I’d been taking notes. No, I’m not saying WHAT ABOUT.

I think that’s the WACA ground on Pauline’s laptop. We watched our blokes win the Ashes.

Black swans live  over here.  This one didn’t seem to have much ‘go’ in him.  Milly ran away because she thought it might peck her.

Lift me up mate…come on!

They wouldn’t let me back on the train after the little incident in the dining car, so I had to get a plane home. Well it was quicker, anyway!

Goodbye.

Mrs Edna Wood came into our lives several years ago, after an acacia tree was felled.  Right from the outset she had a penchant for hats, especially with extravagant floral trimmings.  We live in the beautiful Blue Mountains, where rhododendrons and camellias provided her with an unlimited selection during spring.

Ready for the local Rhododendron  Festival.

Perhaps she went little too far on this occasion, but that’s what people do for the Melbourne Cup.

Just…Wow!

Fuschias were all the go in summer. worn with a pretty scarf.

Here she is on Valentine’s Day. That’s grevillea with the twin hearts.

Chocolate heart bonnet.

In autumn she liked to feature just one or two colourful leaves; the fascinator effect she called it  Tulip tree leaves were her favorite, although Japanese maples often appeared.

Golden tulip tree leaves. Simple in style, but effective.

It was always Mrs Brown’s contention that just because  winter arrives, standards should not be allowed to drop.  This next hat was a cool confection trimmed with  Australian native grevillea. I believe she called it  ‘frozen platter’.

Oh my, so very cool!

D-DAY FOR EDNA WOOD

Sadly, nothing lasts forever. The awful time came when a path had to be widened, and  poor Mrs  Wood had to go.  Good grief, I could hardly bear to watch. She was cut off in her prime.

The end is nigh for Edna Wood.

Oh my hat!

It’s all over now.

Her  timber was so hard that my husband Rob reckoned  she would keep us warm for a week of winter nights. Honestly,the man has no heart. He carried her around to the woodpile ad threw her on.

On the scrap heat.

WAIT……THAT LADY’S NOT FOR BURNING!

Somehow it just wasn’t right. How could an icon of millinery fashion suffer such a fate?

And then……a little miracle. Somehow Edna got herself down from the wood pile, refreshed her make-up,  found her hat, and trimmed it with the  finest rose in the garden.

Never say die.

She set herself up in a new role; Guardian of the Firewood. Long may she keep the stacks free of snakes, white-ants, spiders  centipedes. and log looters. Not that anyone in our delightful village of Blackheath would stoop so low of course.

Armed and ready to defend.

EXCUSE ME…..I HELPED WRITE AND RESEARCH THIS STORY. NO ACKNOWLEDGEMENT FROM PAULINE CONOLLY OF COURSE,(signed)  EDITOR DES