history

Chapter One — Untitled

Hans Endersans was not a happy man. He’d been to one too many “bored” meetings, as he called them, and each and every restaurant manager felt exactly the damn same to him. They were pretty, pretentious people, made to carry a tray of Cognac, or a semi-inexpensive bottle of wine, made to greet people at the door with a smile and a slight bow, made to pick on the harried, sweating kitchen hands and argue with the greatly feared chefs of the seven restaurants Hans now owned.

Not a one of them seemed to have the brain capacity for new ideas.

Apparently, thought Hans, this is my fault for not “allowing” them to sprout their rubbish into my ears for hours on end, or listen to their thoughts on a new type of whipped garlic butter, or allow them to be ashamed when I’ve told them it’s all been done before, but ….

‘Sure,’ he said loudly to the severely gelled woman at the other end of the table. ‘Whatever you think.’

She smiled and picked at the tablecloth in front of her with fingernails Hans would never have allowed in a commercial kitchen. ‘I’d like the thoughts of my fellow managers if you don’t mind, Hans.’

The other managers, who knew Hans far better than she did, held their breaths and leaned back, or held their breaths and slumped down, or held their breaths and …. He glanced at the man closest to him. It did kinda look like he was trying to dig a hole into the carpet with one patented shoe. Hans frowned, and tried not to let his baser instincts get the better of him.

There are no bones under the table. There are no bones under the table. The scowl deepened and he rolled his shoulders, trying not to glare at the ridiculous woman with the gelled back hair.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he asked politely.

‘I said,’ said the woman, not completely understanding everyone else’s reaction. ‘That I would like the opinions of my –‘

There came a chorous of positive responses arounfd the table.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Oh yes, what a wonderful thought.’

‘I am in complete agreement.’

‘Never would have come up with that one myself,’ said one participant, who nearly swallowed his own tongue after Hans shot a glance at him. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Too much?’

Hans tried not to grin. It had been a sarcastic comment, but he should not have found it amusing. He cleared his throat.

‘There we have it,’ he said, waving a hand in the air. ‘Are we done yet? I’m hungry. How about you bring one of your whipped garlic butter whatsits in and we’ll destroy it with some lovely crunchy bread rolls, and then you can all go back to what you should actually be doing and take the fucking day off because it’s Monday.’

‘What does Monday have to do with, well, anything?. The soon-to-be-fired restaurant manager asked from botox injected lips.

Hans raised an eyebrow. ‘How long did you say you’d worked in Hospitality,’ he asked. Did he really need to go back and check her resume?

Her mouth closed with a slightly gummy sound them popped open again. This woman had a death wish. ‘I know, traditionally we don’t open on Monday’s Hans, but…’

‘There’s a reason for that Nora. Tell me what the reason is,’ he said.

‘The reason?’

‘Yes, the reason. Tell me the reason we don’t usually run our restaurants on a Monday.’

‘Well, traditionally, we wouldn’t make much money I suppose, but –‘

‘You suppose?’

‘Yes.’ She sat up straighter on her vinyl covered chair, if that was possible. She’d already looked like there was a carrot stuck up her arse. Now it looked like it was a cobweb broom with an extendable handle.

‘Well,’ said Hans. Let’s just suppose I like making money, okay? Let’s just suppose that, shall we? Let’s not kick “tradition” in the arse, just because you have come up with this “new” and “amazing” whipped garlic butter which has never been done in the past, ever, apparently, by anyone else at all, and think about this sensibly for a change.’ He stood up. ‘I like making money, Nora. I do not like losing money. I also like to give my staff the occasional day off. How about you?’

Finally, it looked like the woman had grown a brain. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh, indeed. Speaking of staff, when you’ve pulled that one out of your backside, perhaps you’d like to come and visit me in my private office and we’ll discuss how much you like your career.’

‘Let’s see how those crunchy bread rolls are going, shall we,’ said the man with the patented shoes.

‘Let’s,’ said Hans.

Chapter One to be continued…

Worry — Warri

Sometimes, when you’re young, you may not be completely aware of the lengths people will stretch themselves to, to ensure your safety. Sometimes, you do not see the time and effort they went to, to create something as simple as a wooden fish on a leather thong. Sometimes, it’s a life’s work to get out one hundred or so simple pages just to keep people happy.

It was many hours later Solway had been dropped off at the apartments. She had called the police whilst perched on Jenny’s lap as they headed up the highway, which was slightly amusing but not at the same time, and the conversation with Search and Rescue was ongoing as she’d quietly thanked Jenny and Ronald for their help (they really could not help any more than they had), retrieved the spare key from under the dead pot plant, gone inside, noticed how empty the place seemed without Bart there, and sat down.

The police and the follow up call to Search and Rescue had not been particularly helpful, the woman asking if Bart was in imminent danger, exposed to the elements or anything else that required spending a great deal of the state’s money to save someone who possibly didn’t need rescuing. 

Solway had answered honestly with “I don’t think so” to the majority of the questions although, she said angrily to the operator on the other end, how the hell would she know when it could be possible Bart was in imminent danger of being drowned by a large creek that had not been particularly large when they’d first got there.

The operator went on to say it could possibly be a situation where he needed airlifting, and did Solway think airlifting someone out of a possibly not too bad situation was worth paying for from the state’s coffers, even if the helicopter pilots might think it could be a lot of fun and keep them entertained.

The last part of the operator’s statement had Solway wondering if perhaps the operator had a partner who flew helicopters and liked to be entertained, but she did not ask as it didn’t appear pertinent to what she was asking. The next question Solway asked was this…

‘So, you are not going to help me then.’ It may have been rhetorical.

‘That’s not what I said,’ the operator replied in a very calm voice. ‘I am just explaining the logistics of organising your rescue party, when it is highly likely you could possibly do more, and do it faster, from your end rather than relying on us.’

‘I see.’ Solway said and even to her own ears her voice sounded kind of dead. ‘Thanks for your help. Do you have any suggestions?’

‘Unfortunately, as I do not know the full situation of your partner at this current point in time, it is not…. Oh buggerit. Look. If I were you, I’d see if I can get someone who could at least tow the vehicle back to the main road, see if you can get the flat replaced, and you guys would be on your way.’

‘That’s not quite as easy as you think it is,’ Solway replied, thinking of the extremely sandy track, the extremely gravelly, and not in a good way, track, and the extremely winding track they had first gone down which had lots of trees in the way.

‘It’s all I can offer you, and I shouldn’t even be saying that,’ replied the operator. ‘Listen, luv, I’m sorry I can’t help you, but unless this is an emergency situation, our hands are tied. I wish you the best of luck, and I’ve written down both your names and it’s in the system now, so if anything else occurs, call us back and we’ll know what to do.’

‘Thanks,’ Solway said because she couldn’t think of much else to say. ‘I appreciate your time.’ Before the operator could say anything else, she hung up and sat on the couch in the living room watching the empty screen of the TV for a very long time.

Then she headed for the shower. The warm water pelting her head made her feel guilty.

A little thought trembled into the side of her mind that she should possibly not feel too guilty because after all she had done all the hard work of walking all the way until she’d found those people, and been given a lift home through sheer kindness alone, but she was here, and Bart was somewhere three hours south in the middle of the first autumn storm for the year, and it just didn’t seem right.

And now night had fallen, and there was nothing sensible she could do until the morning. The only thing Solway could think of doing was start making lists of all the people she knew, explain the situation as best she could, and hope that someone had the right gear and vehicles to get Bart back on the road.

She did not think she’d be getting much sleep at all.

______________o______________

Bart happened to be playing charades with a see-through lizard, who had decided to reduce its size and sit on the outside of the tented end of the swag because they had both noticed if it sat on the inside, things tended to get wet (including Bart, because the swag was not particularly big).

The lizard kind of reminded him of a picture he had once seen of the first creature that had apparently left the ocean and crawled onto the land. He wondered if that had been see-through as well.

Probably not quite as see through as I am now, the lizard thought very clearly at him, and I am thinking very clearly I think because this is just a little part of me The rest of me has flown around the world a couple of times to check on people who think they may need to laugh a bit more, and I am finding that I have learnt a lot of different languages to/for/night day and do not yet have the ability to make full stops which I believe were only invented so people could take a breath between thoughts which is something I don’t need to do

The game of charades the lizard had decided to play with him had something to do with Solway. It was highly likely the lizard had looked at Solway’s name inside Bart’s head and decided, seeing as they were speaking English and not any other language at this particular moment… had decided Solway’s name meant Sun walk – which it didn’t, but Bart didn’t have the heart to hurt the lizard’s feelings.

The idea of “sun walk” had appeared as a vision between them, and it had indeed taken Bart a little while to figure out what, or who, the hell the lizard meant, especially after it deposited a pair of very large imaginary rose-coloured sunglasses on his lap.

But, he’d got there eventually.

Now, the lizard was showing him a box of round chocolates covered in gold wrapping and putting them next to the sunwalk and, if the lizard could look at him inquiringly with its very large, completely round, golden eyes, Bart supposed that was exactly what it was doing. It also began to purr again, which made his boots vibrate at the edge of the tent.

He wondered if he should ask the lizard to stop doing that, because it did not appear to be doing the ground they were sitting on any favours whatsoever. He frowned.

The lizard looked at the ground, which was wobbling, widened its eyes even more if that were at all possible, and levitated almost exactly ten centimetres (if Bart had a ruler he’d have measured it, but was somehow assured that was the height and he shouldn’t be arguing), then showed him, once again, the vision of the sunwalk and the clear box of round chocolates.

The lizard added two little stick arms. One from the chocolates, and one from the sunwalk, which had somehow turned into a golden pathway. They joined together, little stick fingers intertwining.

Bart shook his head.

The lizard added what looked like a tiny penis to the bottom of the chocolates and looked at him again.

‘I know what the chocolates are. They’re Ferros’,’ Bart said. ‘Oh! I think I’ve got it. You are talking about Solway’s brother.’ He clapped his hands.

Solway’s brother was not named Ferro. Bart snorted. He also probably wouldn’t appreciate being portrayed as a box of delicious chocolates. What the lizard had portrayed was that Solway’s brother was completely opposite to his sister in colouring, and had dark brown eyes instead of blue. His hair was also very dark, whereas Solway’s was very blonde. If the brother and sister could be complete opposites in the way they looked, Bart supposed to the lizard’s mind, this was how it seemed. Sunshine and Chocolate. For some reason, this brought tears to Bart’s eyes. 

Solway and her brother had not spoken since shortly after Solway had met Bart and, he thought, he might be the reason for that.

The lizard put one of the imaginary chocolates in its mouth and smiled.

‘I see,’ said Bart, although he didn’t, not really. ‘Oh, no, now I get it, you think Solway’s brother has something else going on, right?’

The lizard’s smile grew wider.

‘Okay. Well. Are you trying to tell me now is the time Solway should be talking to her brother?’

The lizard stood up from its levitating, jumped up and down, and ran inside the swag.

‘Oh no,’ said Bart, thinking everything would get completely soaked.

It didn’t get completely soaked because, apparently, the lizard had thought all about that and decided to wear a plastic poncho, which had not been on it before, and had hung it up just outside the doorway, which had definitely not happened as far as Bart could tell, yet apparently now it had, and the lizard had decided to change itself to look quite a lot like Solway, and that was extremely disconcerting because it had not remembered to wear any clothes.

Bart did not know quite what to say, and decided, at least for the time being, it would be safer not to say very much at all. He searched around with one hand for his beanie, and pulled it completely over his head, and his face, and all the way down to his chin.

Phew, he thought. That’s much better.

Liar, thought the lizard.

~~~~~~,~’~~~~~.~’~~80>

The Indian Ocean

I’m from W.A. That’s Western Australia, in Australia. We have the largest coastline on the Australian Continent.

I’ve never been to the topmost part of Western Australia. I’ve only been as far up the coast as Kalbarri, which, when one was born in the southernmost corner of Western Australia, a reasonable way. People I’ve worked with and are friends with have lived or are living in those higher regions of W.A, nonetheless, and the countryside is completely different to where I currently reside.

You don’t hear much about the Indian Ocean. People don’t often write stories about it, or name things after it, or even wonder where it’s there half the time, despite it being the third largest ocean in the world (according to Google). That’s okay. Despite that it still exists, as do all the islands and continents whose coastlines are met by its waters.

The countries surrounding the Indian Ocean speak many different languages besides English, and I don’t think I could name them all. But, when we were kids at school, all those years and years back, we were told the most spoken languages (other than English) at that time were French, German, and Italian. At my high school (and primary school) down on the south coast, I learnt French. Spanish, despite its popularity, was not an option here.

When one wanders up the Western Australian coastline on Google Maps, or Google Earth and looks at the names of towns, and islands, one may suggest perhaps Dutch should have been offered as a language as well. I don’t remember it being offered as a language at my school. Maybe it was at others.

You don’t hear much about the Indian Ocean or Western Australia in history either. There are far more exciting topics to discuss — like where Chris Columbus went, or who landed in New Plymouth, and how many different sizes of barleycorn there might be if one looked at them closely. I suppose it’s because, when all those really early explorers looked at our coastline they thought to themselves, ‘You know what, this place doesn’t look very friendly. I think we’ll head back home.’

Everyone is affected by the area they grew up in, and the regions they have resided in for most of their lives. So, I guess I’m just looking at a world map from my perspective, (and possibly the perspective of many West Australians) not other people’s, which is possibly why I wrote this short piece today.

Thanks for reading. Don’t get stranded on any reefs. We have a few.

‘Why there should not be In-fighting.’

I personally, have not travelled all the way up the West Australian coastline, although, luckily for me, my Mother-in-Law has. During her travels, she has picked up memorabilia and souveniers (I always spell this wrong, apparently) , as one does when travelling.

This morning, I went into the spare room in our house looking for a broom, as I’d quite forgotten I’d moved it back to where it was originally meant to be. When I noticed the pamphlet/book on the floor, put there almost as if by accident, I remembered a movie I saw a few years back.

‘Red Dog.’

Now, this particular pamphlet from 1993, was entitled “Red Dog, The Pilbara Wanderer”, by Beverley Duckett. There had been a book, and I quote, “written some years ago by Nancy Gillespie”. The writer/researcher of the pamphlet, Ms Duckett had researched this story, along with a lot of people who provided stories and photographs of a red kelpie cross.

I noticed the writer of the booklet was very fond of exclamation marks. Now, one notices these things, because each writer, just like a gambler, has a “tell”. When a passage, or story is first written, before it is edited, these “tells” are fairly evident. After editing, and other people’s input, the tells become less evident and more confusing.

When one has done most of, or all of, the editing themselves, and finds it rather tiresome and annoying, one may leave the occasional “tell”, that others may find if they look carefully. This then gives this “copier” or “forger” more little habits to pick up. It is then unfortunate for them when the original author of a particular work finds someone else’s “tells” sitting in front of them, and thinks, ‘Hmm, there seems to be a few missing little things here, and a few added on things there, and some rather unfortunate word choices here, and some, “Hang on, is this originally in another language?” here.’

So, to prevent confusion, I now tend to leave little things of my own behind. For example, when I see something underlined on an editing or spelling program, which is an incorrect correction, I think to myself, ‘Let’s just leave my own mistakes here, and no one else’s.’

When I see someone who may have studied the way I write trying to add more of my own little tells to my own work, I think, ‘No, I think I will do it my own way, because if I did it another way, and didn’t correct it almost immediately, that would be someone else’s way of writing, or perhaps me in a past life trying to get through something as quickly as possible due to outside interference.’

I’m not in a hurry today. I guess, when one starts getting headaches one has never had before in one’s life, one begins to assume there is something going on. I guess, that’s when someone might think, ‘You know what, I’m going to take all the time in the world, for however long that time is, and I am not gonna let any bastard stop me, and that’s that.’

I will add a photograph of what I have of “RED DOG The Pilbara Wanderer” when I get a moment. I would hope the people on page 38 can see what unknowns are trying to do with this particularly written history, and perhaps do something about it by alerting each other.

Issues with Just about Anyone.

So, we move on from this, and we move forward to the day some jumped up little upstart forgot to be pleasant and started giving an Australian woman a hard time.

‘That’s you, raisin bread,’ said the Australian woman, not in the least bit of ill-repute, but rather a good judge of character.

‘Okay, so I line my clouds with silver… um…’ The “raisin bread” of no uncertain heritage, according to him, decided to try to finish the sentence. It was not the first time this had happened. Apparently, according to him, he didn’t understand what all the fuss was about Australian people, but after the last year or so, he had definitely figured out not to push it.

‘Come, sit,’ he said pointing at a cushion.

‘Yeah, I don’t think I will.’

‘I am being polite-fill.’

‘Good for you, and I don’t know what you just wrote.’

‘Zis ees zee ole pointing.’ Raisin-bread raised the piece of paper he’d been writing on, and waved it dramatically in the air. ‘You know exactly why I choose this little doodle.’

‘Shall I teach you something now, or a little bit later on?’ She was wearing shorts today, which seemed a lot more comfortable than the suit and tie he had on.

‘Please, go ahead.’

‘So,’ she pointed at the very odd looking ear with little musical notes under it and an empty thought bubble. ‘A doodle doesn’t look like that.’

‘Oh no,’ whispered the bystander, who was trying desperately to hold up an overlarge spear. ‘She’s teaching him Australian again.’

She took the piece of paper from his hand and studied it carefully. ‘Yes, well. No it still doesn’t look like a doodle. I suppose I could turn it upside down. I’ll try that.’

The pasha frowned very deeply, his most magnificent eyebrows beetling backwards and forwards like a very hairy caterpillar.

‘Nope,’ the woman said. ‘Not that I condone this in any way, and I would rather not see it on your children’s exercise books, but a doodle is a… is a… you know.’

‘A you know? What is a you know? Like cards? I play cards. What does this have to do with a doodle?’

‘I suppose it depends on what type of card games you play. I do not like where this is going,’ said the woman. ‘So, stop that right now. Where the hell are these children I am meant to be teaching? You know, the ones that belong to you.’ As an aside, she reminded this pasha that many people might not raise their voice slightly in a questioning tone every time they asked a question. Sometimes, the question may not sound like a question at all. Sometimes, and she began to tap her foot, the question might sound a little bit more like a, ‘Go and find your children, because it’s time to teach them about the anatomy of the human body, and if that makes you feel uncomfortable at all, I’d probably leave the room while these new students learn. They get very giggly, so I’m told, when they learn this type of thing, and having their father in the room may be more uncomfortable for all concerned.’

As the pasha left the room he muttered, ‘I found out what a doodle was quite some time ago, but because my bystander holding the spear looks slightly woebegone, I will let you explain it to him.’

‘It’s a dick,’ said the woman. ‘Now you can go too. This will not get any better at all if you do not start behaving.’

😢

😀 — I will need to make sure nothing resembling this scene and story type  is coming out any time soon, because that would be most terrible, wouldn’t it. Especially if the remake had this exact twist.

The pasha shouted from the other room. ‘Please go ahead. I checked. But, you do you.’

Sometimes, he really needed a smack over the head with an extra large cushion.

To be continued…

Not too much later the pasha returned with two rather overgrown children wearing school uniforms that did not seem to cover up all the things they were meant to. This was fairly normal in the Western World, and these particular two children (whom the lady had already met) liked music.

‘I think you two can sit at the back of the class,’ said the lady. ‘I am pretty sure you have a fair idea of what I am about to tell the rest of the children. Where are they, exactly?’

The boy who seemed to have outgrown his school uniform raised his hand, which was very good manners indeed.

“I fink they got waylaid at the oriental express, miss,” he said. ‘Should we wait until they get here?”

‘I believe we shall. Meanwhile, you two,’ and she looked at them both severely over the top of her reading glasses. ‘…Can study your textbooks. There will be no silly business, so you…’ she pointed at the pen in the boy’s hand. ‘Stop trying to make a spitball and focus.’

The pasha had come back into the room and now stood in the corner, watching these first two teenagers with his arms folded. ‘Just pretend I’m not here,’ he said, and started playing with his phone.

‘I’m sorry, we don’t use phones in the classroom. Sir. Should I call you sire? I really don’t know what I should be calling you. You see, you have brought all these children to Australia, and I just don’t think we have started off on the right foot, have we. I am not quite sure who you are, but I do believe your leadership skills might come in handy for the children to understand what they are supposed to be doing.’

The pasha frowned, again most miserably. ‘Sorry.’ He gave her a rather fake smile. ‘Didn’t realise we were in church.’

‘We’re not. What we are in, is a classroom, and if the picture you were referring to of Chicken Jesus was what you initially meant, instead of the doodle written on a little piece of paper that you gave me, perhaps you should have said.’

Now, at that point the rest of the children filed into the classroom. There seemed to be quite a few of them, and they all seemed to have come from slightly different heritages.

‘Do these, are these… who are these people?’ The governess did not seem too concerned. She was just not sure how so many, very different looking children, could have come from one single man.

‘Oh they all had different mothers,’ said the pasha airly. ‘That’s all.’

‘And have you all decided to stay in Australia?’

‘Not sure yet. Thinking about it. Maybe. Maybe not. Do you people do harems here? Asking for a friend.’

‘I’m afraid not. You see, this is a Christian based country, and what your children may have had to do in other countries, they will not have to do here, if that’s what you mean.’

‘It was exactly what I meant. Good to know. I suppose I’ll be sending at least three of my boys home then, said the Pasha, who did not look in the least bit confused.

‘I suppose you will. Meanwhile, I will have to teach the rest of your children about safe sex.’ 

The woman moved to the board behind her and let the rolled up poster unfurl. ‘This is a picture of the female human body. Now, who here can tell me what this is?’

Two of the girls fainted, one threw up, and another one looked decidedly green. The two Western children at the back of the classroom were laughing their arses off and high fiving each other. Apparently, they had never met before.

‘’Hey,” said the boy, touching the girl on the arm. “I’m Argus. Pleased to meet ya,” he stuck out his hand and the girl raised an eyebrow. “Meat to please ya,” he added, grinning.

‘Fuck off,’ said the girl, very succinctly.

‘Children.’ The pasha was aghast. ‘We do not swear in classrooms. What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘You said Hell,’ said the tiny teenager lying on the ground, fluttering her eyes (she was the one that fainted). ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘It is not,’ said the teenager from a much brighter place. ‘My mum says hell all the time, and she says all sorts of other words too, so I guess it’s not blasphemy anymore.’

‘It is where I come from.’ The girl stood up, quite aggressively for a teeny tiny person. ‘You should not say it.’

‘And how old are you, dear,’ said the educator at the front of the room.

‘I’m twenty three.’

‘That’s not exactly a teenager. Aren’t you a little old to be fainting in a sex education class?’

‘No. This stuff is evil. My husband would never do anything like that. If he did, he would go to Hell.’ She peered around the room. ‘And that’s where you’re all going.’

‘Looks like I’m sending that one home too,’ said the Pasha conversationally.

‘Looks like it.’

‘How long will this class last?’

‘As long as it takes for certain people to understand the difference between our country and the ones they have left. It might take quite some time.’

‘I hope that doesn’t mean I’m going home as well,’ said the pasha, fluttering his rather pretty eyelashes.

‘Well. I guess we’ll just have to say goodbye, then,’ the teacher replied, smiling quite broadly.

‘Are you going to set me up with any girls or not,’ he demanded.

‘What makes you think I’d set you up with any girls. Isn’t that something you’d do by yourself?’

‘Not where I come from.’

‘Well, isn’t that why you wanted to move?’

‘No. Where I come from, people do that for me.’

‘Then I do believe you’ve come from the wrong place.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Where I come from, which is here, in Australia, and the era I come from here, in Australia, we tend to meet people face to face just like those two kids snogging at the back of the classroom are doing right now. Oi!’

‘Hmmm?’ The girl looked up. She seemed a little out of sorts.

‘Go find a bloody room you two. This is not the kind of thing we do in a classroom.’

‘Find a room?’ The pasha looked shocked. ‘Wait a minute. Are those my kids? There’ll be none of that here by golly gosh and crikey.’ He walked a little closer. ‘How old are you two again?’

‘Um, I’m like twenty three,’ said the boy, trying to pull the girl’s hand out of his pants.

‘And you?’ The pasha looked rather upset.

‘I’m um, twenty two,’ said the girl, frowning most furiously at the boy. ‘Oh hey, did you wanna go to the beach?’

“Sounds great,” said the boy. “Let’s go.”

“I’m just not quite sure whether those two are brother and sister or…’ The pasha looked at his notes. “Oh,’ he said. “I see. I think one of them might have come from a castle down the road.”

‘I seee,’ the woman looked at him severely. ‘Still in the dark ages are we? Swapping princes, and all that?’

‘And princesses, occasionally.’ The pasha smiled. This time, it looked far more pleasant. ‘Sorry about that. I missed a hundred years or so there, maybe a little bit more. Okay, maybe not the dark ages, but it did sound good when you were saying it.’ He blew on his fingernails for no reason at all, and rubbed them on his dinner jacket. ‘Thanks for that.’

Saddles can be most uncomfortable when one doesn’t know how to use the horn. It’s actually where one puts the rope.

‘Hi ho, Silver, and way-hey.’

The Unicorn Clock

I have an old Unicorn Clock on the desk behind my laptop. It no longer has a key.

This clock belonged to my parents, and was always on display. When it was wound up, and worked, it chimed a lot. But, I don’t remember hearing it too much, and that was possibly because it chimed a lot and annoyed the crappers out of everyone.

It’s quite a loud chime.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s as loud as a church clock, or a town hall clock, but it’s certainly loud enough to be heard through a reasonably sized modern Australian house with no problems whatsoever.

I know this, rather than remember it, because I just picked it up and turned it over to see if there was anything on it other than just the word, “Unicorn”. When I did this, it chimed at me, possibly because it didn’t like being turned upside down, or possibly because I disturbed something of its inner workings. As I’m rather logical, most of the time, I’m going to put it down to the latter.

I found one on the web that looked very similar, if slightly lighter in colour, and that one had a plaque on it. This one does not. What it does have, is handwritten numbers underneath that may mean something, or not much at all, and if it means something more personal, then that meaning has been lost to time, quite literally.

I can safely say it’s not worth much, money-wise, nor is it particularly attractive. The only people it has meaning to, are my immediate family, my siblings, and myself. It’s just an old clock, with no key, that I keep on my desk.