Tuesday, 2 October 2007

Bucolic idle (part i)

New South Wales has just celebrated the Labour Day long weekend. To those who were children in the 70’s and listened to 2SM or enjoyed some very good birthday party danceothon rages (never raves) most labour day long weekends in the 80’s and 90’s, it will always herald Rocktober.

Speaking of good times and labour (oh dear my mind’s eye just got a flash of Krudd bopping to ELO, oh no and here comes Richo tapping his toe to the Eagles) I spent most of the long weekend with some of my family west of the Blue Mountains. It was a lovely change from that zany Sydders’ hustle and bustle lifestyle – so exhausting staring into space and moaning.

The weather was glorious; sunny, blue skied and cool but rather blowy.

As I reclined in a comfy armchair re-reading bits from the Alan Alda autobio (I was savouring Alan’s anecdote about his doing a cartwheel down the aisle on his way to collect the Emmy for Best Writer, won for an episode of M*A*S*H), dunking a milk coffee biscuit in a cup of tea (constantly sticking it to the man me), I sensed a frantic and agitated movement to my right periphery. I looked out the window to see pater brandishing an enormous pair of secateurs and pruning prunuses with no prudence whatsoever.

Here's to you Daddy Scissorhands. Branches were flying at a furious pace and I feared that one was about to fall and scratch papa's eyeballs, from which cataracts had been recently removed and replaced with a curious and occasional glinting flash that lends him the air of an inscrutable ancient feline. Constable Care threw on the fluoro vest and grabbed some hideous big goggle-like sunnies to shield scissor happy pappy’s eyes from the twigs. I then passed the remainder of the morning playing gardener’s assistant, exhibiting more grace than I did as child in the same role, and gathered the branches, carrying them away to my secret stash of sticks for some future arsoner’s delight.

After that exciting and dutiful activity it was time for some exploration and a picnic. We hastened to Sodwalls and happened upon a railway track and an old viaduct. I wanted to explore the viaduct but it was fenced off. I no longer trespass after a few instances incurring the wrath of landowners and landing in almighty pickles. The railway track still functions for a coal train passed us, or was it phantom, which was rather exciting. Then it was on to Tarana, Oberon and Hampden passing houses and farms with names such as Sweet Pea Cottage, Cherry Tree farm and Pussywillow ridge. On the outskirts of Oberon and on the way to Duckmaloi passed a property named Ponderosa which was adjacent to another called Altamont. There was a strange vibe in the air, Rocktober had indeed begun…

4 comments:

mrs malaprop said...

Spring is a stick

FJG said...

the lack of the long weekend in Victoria is depressing. Hard to get in the Rocktober spirit

Mistress Bel said...

You are incorrigible, not to mention rather old, Mrs M. You stole that line from Rev. Spooner.

Mistress Bel said...

Yes it is hard to get the Rocktober vibe without the long weekend. Still imagine how the equine flu has affected the morale of those racecourse Princesses. NOT a spaghetti strap, one fascinator or plume atop head to be seen in Sydney.