Legends from our own lunchtimes

Thursday, January 12, 2012


Mr Five and the Big "E" had been with us while it rained for the week before Trev arrived, so if he was expecting to settle back and relax for a day two while his jetlag subsided he was sadly mistaken.

Perhaps it was because the temperature in Bristol had been a balmy minus three when he left, and we were now, just two days later dragging him off west of the Range, in temperatures approaching forty degrees, that he seemed so spend a goodly part of his time in the front seat with matchsticks propping his eyes open.

On our way out we'd seen all manner of things foreign to a Pom; empty roads, flood markers, utes with testicles and we'd even heard bellbirds.   It had been quite a tour, but we'd promised much, much more.

During previous visits to the Jondaryan woolshed we'd been shown the place by ex-shearers or jackaroos with names like "Bluey" or "Curly" who had dogs called "deefer" and rollies hanging from the corners of their mouths or unlit behind their ears, and we'd been regaled with tales of the good old days in the sheds.

We had made no small point of explaining to our guest that he was about to leave a lot wiser than he already was, indeed, the best was yet to come we insisted. Perhaps we should not have painted such a vivid picture.

Today we were introduced to "Ken". I have of course no disrespect for those with that moniker, after all my own brother stands tall among them, but this particular "Ken" had clearly left his gabbing equipment in the crib room before he set off.  When, just one sentence into his patter he apologised, informing us that he'd had a week off and hadn't got all the necessary stuff back into his head yet, we may have been wise to have backed slowly away there and then.

But we didn't, preferring instead for the benefit of our Pom, to fill the gaps with our own formidable repertoire of anecdotes and lies.

The highlight of Ken's entire discourse and perhaps the day if not the year, arrived during our tour of the wheelwright's shed, when pointing sternly at the brick hearth in the blacksmith's corner he turned to all who were still listening and remarked, with words that will ring in our ears for ever:

"That's an original concrete, thing."


1 comment

Joan Elizabeth said...

Great to see some posts here. I've been waiting, waiting.

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