The telephone. Sitting proudly with its shiny, creamy skin. An evil machine. It’s made me appreciate how evil the colour cream is. I’m constantly shivering with a blanket wrapped around me staring at it waiting for it to ring. You see, I need to prepare myself. For that most sinister ring. Because it’s when you’re not prepared that its ring damn near gives you a heart attack. Honestly, I keep getting the most terrible frights. I can’t take it no more. So I sit and stare at that telephone in waiting, like some crazy, deranged old lady.
I managed to get away from the telephone as I spent a second week in this outdoors I’ve been hearing good things about. I’d call it an ‘ultrararity’, but ‘rarity’ is an absolute. I don’t get word absolutes. The dictionary folk over at Oxford, to me, are best described as – well, best described in asterisks. Nothing is absolute. That’s why my ultrararity is such a good thing. Defies logic. I do that often.
I was doing a spot of gardening, the manliest pursuit there is. Except fencing, although nowadays I find it a tad boring. They put these marshmallows on the tip of the sword. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of fencing? Now it’s all spectacle. You’d get in trouble for real fencing. The fuzz would lock you up real good. The closest we get to fencing these days is putting up a fence. Even that’s not allowed.
Oh no, one needs permission for a fence these days. A shed, too. And a washing line? Forget it. They’re banned. They think it’s a choking hazard for children. Even for people with gardens but no children. But I’ve never met a six-foot child, nor have I met one that can hang him or herself on a straight bit of thick plastic covered wire secured firmly in place by two bolts. We now have to have Australia’s greatest (and only) invention: the rotary washing line. Which spins in the wind only a measly few feet from the ground with its thin cables that are more flexible than a Russian starlet. Never mind children: I’ve become entangled on that rotary washing line on numerous occasions. And I’ve peeled the skin off my fingers on more than one occasion. The garden then, is a dangerous place.
My first dangerous duty was sweeping leaves. Now, I know what you’re all going to say to me. You’re going to say, “Ally, how are leaves in any way dangerous?” Well <INSERT NAME HERE>, I’ll tell you why. They’re very sharp and I ended up making a hurty on my finger. A brown liquid came out, which was probably my heavily iron filled blood. In fact, I have so much iron in my blood that my white blood cells are beginning to start their own industrial revolution.
My dad offered me some gloves. Which came far too late. By that point, I had more blisters than a Mercurian holidaying on Venus. I’d imagine. Then again, he may well be adapted to the extreme temperatures and not get any blisters at all. In fact, there’s the distinct possibility he might just be a consciousness and not even have skin. He may not even exist, which would make this simile ridiculous. But it would only be ridiculous in that circumstance. Although it will never be as ridiculous as MY DAD NOT GIVING ME ANY GLOVES TO BEGIN WITH! Sigh.
I ended up planting bulbs. I wanted to make the Earth a brighter place (ba-dum-tish). Oh come on, I thought it was good. Ah, suit yourself. I’m of course referring to the plant kind of bulb, which required 10 centimetres of burial. I wasn’t overly sure what a centimetre was, living in a imperial country, so I had to guess and hope that the bulbs will grow. Some of them may not make it, and their deaths will linger in my mind for a colossal twenty seconds. Some may be eaten by the cats, dogs, badgers, Morlocks, foxes or seagulls that we have around here. But some will grow into beautiful daisies. And that’s pretty special. And it will remain pretty special until the cats, dogs, badgers, Morlocks, foxes or seagulls that we have around here, eat them. That’s also special to me.
Although I don’t know why.
“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read”, said American comedian, film and television star, Julius Henry ‘Groucho’ Marx (1890-1977).
Peace Out :|:
(I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. To do so, you can leave a comment by pressing the bubble on the top right of this post and scroll to the bottom of the new page to where it says ‘leave a reply’. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks)