Allotment News

Yesterday afternoon my dog Billy I went to my allotment. I harvested leeks, broccoli, peas, a huge cauliflower and lots of silverbeet. Then Graham, who has the allotment next to mine, told me that he was going to South America for four weeks, and I can have all his broadbeans when they are ready to pick. He also gave me a huge bunch of rhubard and a bunch of white daisies before he roared off on his Harley.

Billy checked out all the other allotments, chased all the birds away and found something disgusting to roll in.

We had poached rhubard with yoghurt for dinner, and I made soup from the leeks, some chicken stock I found in the refrigerator, and some of those little pasta that are shaped like rice. That's today's lunch.

Then I planted tomatoes, capsicums and lettuce, and we dragged our bag of produce home.

A Joyous Week

What a wonderful week it has been for we soured old feminists. First there was the sight of Steve Irwin's memorial service, complete with crocodiles and John Williamson. And was that a professional choir lined up in khaki shirts? They sounded suspiciously like it to me. The highlight of course was the horrid continuing exploitation of his daughter.
Then there was Peter Brock's state funeral, with men in mullets and holden t- shirts, some with attractively random teeth, expressing their love for Brocky, and his wife and mistress on the steps of St Pauls, separated by an apprehensive looking clergywoman. Running through the week there was the spectacle of the Armed Robbery Squad going about their business, with, yes! a token female among them. Every day the papers showed us a parade of the members looking like a poster for Pulp Fiction. I thought the casting a little stereotyped, actually.

And finally, the silver sparkles on the chocolate cupcake, Shelley Kovco displaying her large new tattoo of her beloved, smiling on her upper arm above his regimental badge. This was for some reason in much darker ink than his portrait, which seemed as though it should mean something.