Cash and Co

So following the strayanyoushouldbespeakin'it debacle, Huey and I could not quite part ways without a full debriefing.

There we were smack bang on Broadway wonderin' where to go. Despite the earlier incident i really did not feel like going to a hot carpeted pub to be entertained by Mr Tipple; so where else could we go but the waterhole established and favoured by the Hillsong folk, no, not Lassiters, your obtuseness, glory get with the strength, Gloria Jean's!

Cockadoodledoo and god bless the mounties, which one of you little schnuckers will be usin' that for your next posting's label or title, there really was nothing else nearby.

It was great to enter a place that was just like Central Perk on Friends, so fabulous when reality blends into fiction. However there is no waiter/ressing service so i told Huey to bags us a table and chair, all de comfy womfy wounges and armchairs were occupied, bummer, while the mistress ordered and received - i'm in training for next week's Passiona celebrations.

I ordered two soda waters with ice and was asked whether i'd like some nice hazelnut syrup in the soda. What no malt?! I don't know what come over me but i declined. Ideas above station alert.

I collected the sodas from Al, no Arnold, um Gunther (?) and took em over to Phoebe, er Huey ah Potsie. Into every life a special guest appearance by Anson Williams must fall, singing, natch.

We sunk our soda and proceeded to rant. I must confess, non sequitur risers, that the Mistress was not making a shrrrrred of sense.

One minute i was slaggin off Mr C and barking at Potsie/Huey to sit on it - to which Huey sweetly enquired "what?", am surprised i could hear her enquiry for all the canned laughter reverberating in my ears. Following that timeless catch cry I'd flick my hair away from face, tilt my head from side to side, all jaw and chin jutting forward and utter another classic riposte " uh yehuh" only to blithely begin ranting about bigoted conductors, canned laughter switching to collective oooooooooooooh.

Was I speaking in tongues?

It was all a bit of a freak out at this coffeshop, people.

I might have been better off down at the Peach Pit rooting and tooting with Kelly, Dylan, Brandon, Steve, Jughead and Donna. I guess I'll never know.

And then the iceman arriveth (sorry about that phoney ye olde English I was a journo for RAM in 1977 and haven't quite shaken the style from my system).

Fellow was coming down big time; slamming hands on table, rockin' the table, cuttin' his tongue on someone else's pie, yellin'... then he got up and quietly joined the queue.

Oh Hillsong, you've done it again.

It was 5 p.m. on Saturday afternoon and the witching hour was upon us. Time to get off the crazy streets of central. I now knew how Penne Hackforth-Jones felt as that lady in the wild lawless goldrush days of Austraya. Only to espy PHJ from the bus four days later- strolling outside David Jones, alas sans Serge Lazareff and Gus Mercurio. Spooky or is that feeaky? NB next posting will have to focus on my sixth sense.

It was time to get home to the election coverage.