source : the age
“Ah, Girilambone (C8),” effuses Bob Edgar of Moss Vale. “Nice choice, Janice Creenaune. I hope you have time for a delightful round trip via Gulargambone, Quambone and Billybingbone.”
“Letters to newspapers claiming the first sighting of magpies (C8) and blowflies are older than Granny,” reckons the canny Phil Kanaley of Glebe. “PG Wodehouse observed that ‘Nobody knows why, but editors have a weak spot for cuckoos, and anyone who hears the first one is pretty sure of an entree to their columns … what is known in my profession as ‘cuckoo-work’ … there is no market whatever for the second man who hears the cuckoo.’ At that time Granny was but a lass, not making her debut until 1947, but has since endured 79 summers of ornitho/entomo-logical encounters of the first kind.”
Edward Loong of Milsons Point reports that “not just one but three separate magpies were dive-bombing this morning adjacent to Wendy Whiteley’s Secret Garden at Lavender Bay, so I’m told by one of Wendy’s gardeners. He should know – being the target of all three. Unlike past years, I was spared – but fingers crossed for my morrows after.”
“The recent reference to the Edinburgh Writers’ Festival in the Herald reminded me of when we saw Terry Jones of Monty Python fame there many years ago,” says Nola Tucker of Kiama. “I bought his book and asked if he could dedicate it to my grandchildren. ‘Yes’, he replied, pen poised, ‘what are their names?’ ‘Just make it to the grandchildren as there are nine.’ Yes…’ very patiently ‘and what are their names?’ So I told him and still have the book with the nine grandchildren’s names neatly inscribed and his signature under them. Later on, we had a tenth grandchild, but I didn’t go back.”
Sometimes, a strict dress code (C8) can be a nice little earner. Here’s Paul Keys of Clouds Creek: “At the Hornsby Police Boys’ dance in the mid-’60s, the requirement was to wear socks, which could be purchased there. They also had some great bands playing.”
“Years ago, a friend was denied entry to an RSL club as his new shirt had no collar,” recalls Patrick McMahon of Paddington. “He crossed the road to a service station and asked the mechanic if they could swap. He then returned to the club wearing the mechanic’s grubby, grease-stained but collared shirt and was immediately granted entry.”
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