My father’s brother was a lovely gentleman. Softly spoken but with a wicked sense of humour. He emigrated to New Zealand many years ago where he married my Aunty June, a tall beautiful Englishwoman, and settled down to raise his family. As a consequence we saw very little of our ‘kiwi’ cousins, but our infrequent get-togethers were indeed memorable.

During one trip to Australia Uncle Bill was discussing funny town names and the indigenous meanings behind them. Whilst Wetwang, Crapstone and Penistone in the UK got honourable mentions, and Middlefart in Denmark had us chortling, it was his earnest assertion that the Maori village of Whykickamoocow (pronounced why kick a moo cow) did exist, that had everyone in stitches. I looked for it last night on Google Maps. Its not real.

Uncle Bill and Aunty June always exuded a feeling of warmth and hospitality. I remember a Contiki tour I did in NZ when I was twenty years young. I had a free night in Wellington and I figured I would invite myself over for a home-cooked meal. I spent a little over an hour flicking through the local phone book for a Mr. B or Mr. W Green. After a couple of phone calls to prospective relatives were met with stony silences and a dial tone, I gave up and went out for a pizza. It was only when I got back to Australia that I found out his real name was Gavin. Dad still hasn’t explained where the name ‘Bill’ came from. My uncle and I  shared a huge laugh about when I told him the story a couple of years later at the family reunion in Mumbil – a tiny town out near Dubbo in New South Wales where my Uncle Doug had a hobby farm. Then he cooked one of the best curries I have ever eaten.

I may not have had a lot of contact with Uncle Bill in my life, purely because of the tyranny of distance, but he was a gentle soul and will be sorely missed.

A Poem By John Turnbull.

“Well hello stranger… welcome home,
Yes, I’m leaving you, my dear.
Come, come…don’t look so woebegone,
You’ve been leaving me for years.
–
Look, no one likes to be alone,
Don’t insult me with your tears.
Where were you when I needed you?
You’ve been leaving me for years.
–
And even when you were at home,
You were never really here.
Always a million miles away…
You’ve been leaving me for years.
–
You’ll tell your friends that I left you,
I guess that’s how it appears.
Goodbye stranger…tell the truth.
You’d been leaving me for years.

My apologies to Mr. Turnbull for not seeking permission to reproduce his work. Unfortunately I cannot find any reference to his novel or identity online other than the copy of the cover above. Please contact me if you are the author, know the author or represent the author.

Of Licking Toads and Elbows.

By the time I had become a proud father of five I was nearing my late thirties. Unfortunately I had gained weight with each and every child that came along and my physique was no longer the bronzed Adonis of my early adolescence. My body had matured, like a fine wine or mouldy cheese and had slowed down to the speed of a turtle wading through treacle. I was in shape though. ‘Round’ is a shape after all. However, at the insistence of my partner, I returned to the sporting arena.

Standing in the Colosseum as rambunctious Romans bayed for Christian blood, shortly before the lions were let loose, was an exhilarating experience.  A crisp breeze dispersing the scent of blood before fear and defiance set in. At least that’s how I imagined it. The indoor soccer grounds at the local gym smelled more like old sweat and dirty socks, and the kids had come along to laugh at poor iDad as he waddled around breathlessly trying to compete with men not much more than half his age.

I lasted twenty minutes that first day.

As I stopped and spun anti-clockwise so as to kick the ball back into the field of play I heard a muffled gunshot. A millisecond later and my left knee could no longer bear my weight. The referee’s whistle blew and the young official approached me.

“Are you ok mate?”

I had no idea. Pain hadn’t set in yet. Nausea on the other hand…. Something was wrong.

“I don’t know. What happened?”

“Your knee popped. I heard it from over there. You need to go put ice on it.”

As I hobbled off the pitch for my ignominious exit I saw the man from the food shop walk round from behind the counter. He was carrying a bag of frozen peas, which he threw towards me.

“Get this on your knee quick smart mate or it will blow up like a balloon.”

“Did you hear it pop too?”

He grimaced at me before replying.

“Everybody heard that mate.”

He was right. The entire gymnasium had gone silent, and I was off to hospital.

Glory, Glory to South Sydney

Being an armchair athlete and the son of a Rugby League referee helped instill a passion for sports, and my favourite team is the South Sydney Rabbitohs. To date I have never seen them play in a grand final, let alone win one, but with Russell Crowe on board as the owner, iDad is quietly confident.

Rugby League is the dominant winter sport played across the eastern seaboard of Australia with the local competition boasting clubs from Victoria, Queensland, New South Wales and New Zealand. It is played in over thirty nations throughout the globe with annual Test Matches between international sides and a Rugby League World Cup competition, with fourteen representative nations, held every four years or so.

It is a full contact, tribal game with some teams (and their fans) harboring grudges that go back over one hundred years. The annual State of Origin series pits New South Welshmen against their Queensland rivals, many of whom play in the same local sides together. Friendships are forgotten once the athletes walk out into the cauldron and the punishment these men put their bodies through needs to be seen to be believed.

The South Sydney Rabbitohs are the most historically successful Rugby League team of them all. Unfortunately our glory has been few and far between in recent decades and it has become a sad reality that our supporters seem to have a mortgage on disappointment. This is reflected in our club mottos including:

The very popular, ‘oh well, there’s always next week.’

The seasonal, ‘oh well, there’s always next year.’

And the most frequently used of them all – ‘bugger’.

The love we have for our team can never be questioned though and in the year 2000, a crowd of 80,000 people marched on Sydney Town Hall to protest the way News Limited were treating the game and to demand that our club be reinstated back into the national competition. No. 1 was there with me. God Sakes and Granny had stayed at home. Fans wearing club colours from new teams, old teams and extinct teams vented their frustrations to the media; and the Rabbitohs went to court with a fire in their belly. We have not enjoyed much success since winning our case and resuming our playing status in 2002, but a true supporter never gives up.

One day, after a particularly bad beating at the hands of the New Zealand Warriors, three sad little boys came to have a chat to me. No.1 was the spokesman,

“Dad, we love you.”

I could tell right away that this was not going to go anywhere good. God Sakes and Granny looked at their shoes as No.1 continued.

“But do we have to keep going for Souths?”

iDad was speechless.

“They never win dad.”

God Sakes was right.

“They suck dad.”

Granny was too. I nodded sagely.

“No boys, you don’t have to keep following Souths if you don’t want to.”

It hurt for me to say it, but I felt I had no choice. Then they delivered the coup de grace.

“We’re also going to start going for Queensland in the State of Origin. New South Wales never wins that either.”

As the terrible trio toddled off to cause chaos in the rumpus room I slumped back into my armchair and watched wistfully as another Warrior was congratulated for his part in decimating our once beloved red and green footy team. My knee throbbed from the recent reconstruction and I wondered how I would tell their grandfather of the betrayal.

Then a cunning plan formed in the grey matter of my cerebellum. Time for a Chinese meal.

Power to the People.

Stuff of legend...John Sattler, suffering a broken jaw, is chaired off by Bob McCarthy after Souths beat Manly in the 1970 grand final. Source: The Daily Telegraph

The South Sydney Rugby League Club in Redfern had arguably one of the best Chinese restaurants around. Nothing flash or fancy, just plenty of prawn cutlets, gow gee and fried rice. It was inexpensive, tasty and kid-friendly, which made it the perfect ‘westwomp’ as the boys had come to call it. Generally we would go as a family unit with uncles, aunties, cousins and grand-parents. Our table was large and round, and the Lazy Susan was kept incredibly busy.

Outside the restaurant, but still within the building, was the South Sydney Football Club Hall of Fame where photos of players that had gone on to represent their state or country, were hung with pride. The most memorable of all was the picture of John Sattler, South Sydney’s captain in the late sixties and early seventies, being carried off the field after wining the 1970 Grand Final against Manly-Warringah. Blood coursed down his chin from a badly broken jaw he received in the opening minutes of the game. In spite of his horrendous injury he not only played on, but captained his side to one of the most courageous Grand Final wins of all time. As I told the story to my boys their eyes widened.

“Souffs are cooool!”

Once again Granny was right.

One Little Girl hadn’t arrived yet and Mini Me was still bottle fed, so it was just the five us at the table this night. The staff were amazing in spite of the mess Granny made with the ‘chomp-stinks’. God Sakes had given up on them ages ago. He just couldn’t stuff the food in quick enough.

By the time dinner had ended there was a fine layer of rice coating the carpet like sago snow and no more talk about supporting rival teams. To this day my boys are all still members of the football club, waiting patiently for success.

As my boisterous boys embarked on another brouhaha in the brasserie, possibly high on monosodium glutamate, I noticed that there was a minor commotion in the kitchen. Curious onlookers peered from the double doorway as the head-waiter approached me with a purpose.

“Are these all your children?”

For one horrible second I thought we may have finally outstayed our welcome.

“Yes, they’re all mine.”

Even More Interesting Trivia?! – woo hoo, yay, big round of applause.

Crocodile Tears.

Did you know that crocodiles cry when eating? Its true!

Crocodiles, and their cousins the alligator, are deeply sensitive beasts who often spend hours at a time rationalising the forthcoming slaughter and mastication of the baby zebra playing at the edge of the waterhole. Taking a life does not come natural to natures ‘gentle lizard’.

You see, crocodilia are ancient creatures from the late cretaceous, a time when life was simple. A time when Raptors ran through the rapeseed, Gallimimus galloped through the grass, Diplodocus danced in the daisies and Tyrannosaurs tip-toed through the tulips. Volcanoes announced their eruptions weeks in advance and asteroids waved hello as they passed by at a safe distance.

Weekly meetings of Predators Anonymous were held amongst the heather to assist those poor unfortunate individuals who were born without molars. Many a despondent Deinonychus was counselled by a caring caiman during those early days. It was a peaceful time, a happy time, until a fuzzy little biped with opposable thumbs began sharpening sticks and throwing stones.

Nowadays the old croc is all alone in the world. His ancient acquaintances are either extinct or evolved into birds, and whenever he tries to smile at a human he gets shot in the head. There is no support group, no outlet for his emotions. So when he kills, and kill he must, he sheds a little tear.

So please try and remember this story when you meet our scaly friend. And if he happens to have a little nibble on your bum well, as Homer Simpson once said, ‘its just like going to sleep – in a blender’.

Dead Ringer.

A ring, a ring o’ roses,
A pocket full o’posies
Atishoo atishoo
We all fall down.

What a cute, nonsensical nursery rhyme – NOT!!! Its actually an evil little ditty about death and decay, dating back to the first outbreak of bubonic plague in England in the 1300’s

Old Mother Goose, the wicked witch of Westfarthing penned the poisoned words in the basement of her thatched hut where she brewed the black-death in a blood soaked cauldron. Scared yet? You should be!

Ring-a-Rosie refers to the raised round welts and weeping lesions that initially infected the doomed individual.

As their skin decayed and began to slough off the their bones, a fetid reek would begin to effuse the environment. Victims would stuff their pockets with herbs and wildflowers to ward off the stench. The most common flora available being posies, hence the second line of the rhyme.

Sneezing helped to spread the disease, as did coughing up blood and the lack of an adequate sewerage system.

We all fall down – You’re dead!

Nowadays we read this poem to our children in complete ignorance of its insidious meaning, but pityriasis rosea still exists people and it’s an itchy legacy of the Goose woman.

Leaping to a Ludicrous Leap Year Conclusion – aka Were The Mayans The Original Douchebags?

There have been approximately 514 leap years since Julius Caesar created the Julian Calendar in 46BC. The Mayan calendar, which forms the underlying premise of the movie ‘2012’ with John Cusack; released in plenty of time so the producers could raise the millions of Euros required to secure their safe passage on board the American ark – did not use leap years to synchronise the months to the seasons. In fact, the Mayans had several calendars, one of which was known as the Long Count.

History tells us that,

“The Mayan civilization existed from 250-900 A.D. in the current geographical location of southern Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador and some of Honduras. Archaeologists studying this fascinating culture have been able to decipher their many calendars, but their longest period calendar — the “Long Count” — is what set alarm bells off in the fertile minds of a few conspiracy theorists, doomsayers and guys looking to make a fast buck.”

According to Quantum expert and Sleek Geek, Dr. Karl Kruszelnicki,

“[the Long Count] was set up around 355 BCE, and had as its chosen starting date 0.0.0.0.0, which corresponds to 11 August 3114 BCE. And on 21 December 2012, the Mayan Long Count calendar will read 13.0.0.0.0.

Now here’s how it works. Our numbering system is based on 10. But the Mayans had a counting system based on 20, so most of the ‘slots’ in their calendar had 20 potential numbers (0 to 19). The calendar read a little like the odometer in your car’s speedo (which run from 0 to 9). The extreme right slot (of five slots) would count through the days, and when it got to 19 days (0.0.0.0.19) would reset to zero, and the next slot across to the left would increase by one (to 0.0.0.1.0).

So 0.0.0.0.1 was one day, and 0.0.0.1.0 was 20 days. Then 0.0.1.0.0 was about one year, 0.1.0.0.0 was about 20 years and with 1.0.0.0.0, you’ve clocked up about 400 years. And on 21 December 2012, the Mayan Long Count calendar will read 13.0.0.0.0.”

Therefore, if you subscribe to a conspiracy theory centered around the number 13 you may feel inclined to splurge on ‘buy now, pay later’ items, knowing that you will never have to cough up on the horrendous credit card interest rate. Go for it, Gerry Harvey won’t mind.

However, Dr. Karl continues to say,

“By the way, the time between 0.0.0.0.0 and 13.0.0.0.0 is about 5126 years. Now some Mayan archaeo-astronomers reckon that the calendar should reset back to zero and start again. But others disagree and say it should continue to 20, and then reset again.”

Hmm, hands up all those of you scared of the number 20!

So, bearing in mind that we only started using leap days 2,059 years ago, and the Mayans never used leap days when they set up their calendar to begin in 3114BC, the math that calculated the End of Days is flawed – sorry Arnie.

Add to that the fact that even the experts on Mayan culture cannot agree and there’s a good chance doomsayers, that you’re already dead

Check back on Thursday for Even More Interesting Trivia?!

I have mentioned previously about God Sakes love for all things miniature and his unfortunate inclination to eat said tiny toys. Well Granny also had a predilection for the pint sized. To him, every itty-bitty item was somebody’s baby and, like his brothers before him, his favourite were prehistoric monsters. Plastic dinosaurs (or dinoos as they had been so named by the terrible trio) were everywhere and even though the Brontosaurus was occasionally seen grazing on the T-Rex, and Stegosaurus could sometimes fly, Granny loved them.

It was a cute obsession from our chubby-cheeked cherub that frequently drew a chuckle from family and passersby, until the unfortunate incident at the fancy pizza parlour. Someone had ordered a Mediterranean pizza that was topped with scallops, mussels, prawns and barbeque octopus. It smelled fantastic but was destined never to be eaten, for as it was placed on the red and white checked stereotypical table cloth, Granny’s inner demon let fly with a blood-curdling,

“WHO KILLED ALL THE BABIES?”

The sight of baked hoods and charred tentacles were too much for Granny to bear and I was forced to take him for ice cream to calm him down. Apparently the pizza was really nice. I guess I’ll never know.

Later that year Granny got his own baby to care for when the stork dropped our fourth son down the chimney. With dark curly hair, large brown eyes and a big beautiful smile, number four quickly became known as Mini Me and has lived up to the title ever since.

The Lego Revelation.

The arrival of Mini Me had necessitated a move to a larger house, the purchase of a bigger car and a mortgage akin to the national debt. Six people just do not fit in a Camry no matter how hard you try and although iDad had considered using the boot space (especially for those long holiday miles) the need to keep my license always outweighed the temptation.

Our children were very happy though, in spite of my threats to shove them into the luggage pod on the roof if they didn’t keep their hands to themselves. In the morning they would race me to the front door as I left for work. Breakfast covered fingers smeared my suit with love and Weetbix as I staggered up the hallway and extricated myself from the apartment. Their enthusiasm was no less exuberant when I returned home, only this time it was tomato sauce and fish fingers that coated my clothing. The local dry-cleaners still send me Christmas cards as a thank-you for helping to put their kids through University.

A house full of cubs tends to lead to a floor covering of pre-school detritus and the most prevalent mess at our place was Lego. Colourful bricks, wheels, critters and people littered our lounge room, bedroom, hallway and every other place there should have been carpet or ceramic tiles. It clogged the vacuum cleaner, disappeared under the refrigerator, went through the washing machine and often found itself within the blades of my lawn mower. The kids loved getting it all out, iDad hated putting it all away.

Unfortunately Mini Me had developed a medical problem that caused him pain whenever he went wee-wees so, after a few months of almost zero sleep, his parents were not much better than zombies. Oh sure we avoided nibbling on our neighbours brains, and our hygiene was more than acceptable, but the shuffling shadows of human beings we had become left us frequently drooling on the couch and falling asleep at the dinner table.

The doctors couldn’t seem to work out what was wrong with Mini Me, yet the bills kept coming in. The economy was still holding its breath after September 11 and we had another little miracle on the way. The mess, the lawn, the bills, the asthma, the lack of sleep… It was a hard time for the parents of four little boys and the pressure was beginning to take its toll. Then, when life seemed at its lowest point, something wonderful and just a little bit painful happened.

It was either late in the night or early in the morning, my eyes would not focus on the alarm clock and all I knew was that it was still dark outside, I staggered toward back to the bedroom after comforting No. 1 through another Night Bear. In the dim I did not see the booby trap laid out for me and suddenly found my left foot had decided to introduce itself to the smallest, sharpest piece of Lego in the pack. Now I was awake! Crimson spots dribbled from the gash on my sole as I began scooping up the playthings, but I stopped almost immediately when I noticed the intricate pattern in which they had been laid out. The boys had created an entire Neanderthal village complete with cavemen, palm trees, dinosaurs and farm animals. The Stone Age family had a mother, a father and four children living happily in their little plastic cave. A McDonalds French Fry was the centrepiece of the display. I guess they had hunted and gathered it from the locale fast food franchise, Flintstones style.

Next to the Lambeosaurus was a bunch of drawings by Granny where he had practiced writing his name and spelling the words ‘I love mummy and daddy’. Underneath the drawings was a booklet written and illustrated by God Sakes called ‘These Elephants.’ It was a story about a daddy elephant and his son, and all the adventures they did together. Life no longer seemed so challenging.

The Tooth Fairy.

I’ve never been entirely comfortable holding a piece of someone’s head in my hand but losing a tooth is a natural occurrence and with five kids, well the tooth fairy was going to need an assistant. The American tradition is to hide the fang under the child’s pillow and some pillow cases even have a little pocket to place the chomper within. In light of the thrashing antics of No.1′s night terrors we thought it would be wiser to place the tiny tusk in a glass of water and leave it on the sink for the fairy to find. This was a great idea which served us well for many a discarded denture until the one fateful night that iDad arrived home late from the office Christmas party, a little worse for wear. Staggering into the darkened kitchen, trying desperately not to wake the family, iDad topped up the glass of water he found and drank it.

Have you ever heard the saying when something comes back ‘to bite you in the bum’? Well I know what that actually feels like. Thankfully it was only one of God Sakes front teeth and not a molar or, Heaven forbid, a fifty-cent piece.

One Little Girl.

A couple of months later we brought our fifth and final baby home. One little girl was here, and she was perfect. She was also a little girl, something we were not entirely used to in our household. Hand-me-downs were no longer acceptable. Ponies replaced the Pachycephalosaurus. Pink and purple became the primary colours instead of red and green. The boys didn’t know what had hit them and neither did iDad.

Mud pies, tree climbing and footy became bubbles, ballet and Barbie. Fairies invaded the living room and Princesses were everywhere. One by one the Matchbox cars were replaced with all manner of dolls. Some burped, others cried and a few even soiled their nappies. Only the ubiquitous Lego, with its asexual appeal, remained acceptable. Life as we knew it was inexorably altered forever, but we didn’t care.

From the moment she arrived One Little Girl was the master of her domain. No.1, God Sakes and Granny would rush to pick her up at the slightest squeak, lugging her around the house and playing with pink ‘things’ to keep her amused. Even Mini Me was besotted.

Our last first birthday was a magnificent experience. More time went into the creation of the culinary masterpiece that was the cake, than the rest of the fare we prepared. With marshmallow mushrooms, magenta butterflies, silver cachous and mauve coloured icing that still does not appear in any paint chart on the planet, a bemused One Little Girl finally got to blow out her candle. It was a day I will never forget.

Mini Me and One Little Girl are in primary school together. Granny and God Sakes are almost finished high school. No.1 is studying at college.

Where did the time go?

In 1987 I began working for my family business. It was my second job out of high school and only my third in total. I was a salesman and graphic art supplies was my specialty. Vertical cameras standing six feet tall, diffusion transfer silver-bromide paper, panchromatic lith film that had to be handled in complete darkness – these extinct products were highlights of my price list.

Base camp was the suburb of Marrickville in NSW, an ethnically diverse community with the best Yeeros and Pho soup I have ever tasted. From here I serviced a client base that ranged from Newcastle to Wollongong and as far west as Katoomba. Long hours alone on the road, excellent customer hospitality at the other end. I drank good coffee, bad coffee and something that resembled coffee in a previous life. My favourite was Turkish coffee, so thick that the teaspoon stood straight up in the cup instead of resting against the lip. That was a buzz!

We moved twice in the ten years since I began working with my father, finally settling down in the 290 square meters we would call home in 1998. Rusty racks laden with printing plates lined the walls of the warehouse. A colossal cool room kept photographic film at the required temperature. The gas powered forklift rumbled along the driveway moving pallets of chemicals from articulated lorries as people busied themselves in the Hardiplank offices above.

Unit 6 was alive!

In the dawning decade of the twenty-first century the business grew, and changed. The desktop publishing revolution was well underway when inkjet evolved into a serious solution for proofing and poster production. Apple, Epson and HP were encroaching on the realms of Agfa, Kodak and Fuji; usurping traditional print and photographic processes in their path.

Aluminium plates were gradually replaced with large format paper.

Photographic film went the way of the Dodo.

Pots of printing ink became cartridges of toner.

Lithographic tape became memory modules.

Folks Graphics became Creative Folks.

Unit 6 was thriving!

Staff levels increased, stock levels decreased and the focus shifted. The consumable division was sold off to make way for better IT support facilities and the old building watched helplessly as the oxidised iron shelves were recycled and the rumbling forklift drove away. A roaring silence permeated the atmosphere when the cool room generators were turned off for the very last time and I’m sure I heard Unit 6 sigh as the removalists relocated its family east of the Cooks River.

I said goodbye to my old friend one last time this morning. The roller shutter door squealed a final farewell as I slid the bolts into place. Fluorescent lights flickered upstairs, and then became dark.

My eyes watered. I swear it was the dust.

The incessant yet gentle precipitation had left me feeling mildly depressed. My Monday morning jog had been washed out and the Tuesday morning raincheck was, well, rainchecked again. On top of that the exercise bike was broken, which tends to happen when you plug the incorrect transformer into the socket. I knew something was wrong when the digital display began smoking like a peer-pressured teenager. Riding was no longer a possibility.

All out of options, and feeling a little stodgy from the weekend excesses, I hit the road in the rain for a seven kilometre dash.

K1

The first kilometre was reasonably uneventful. My Nike GPS application on the iPhone was reminding me of my pace whilst shuffling through my playlist of motivational songs. Richard Clapton sang ‘Get Back to the Shelter’ as the Telstra truck clobbered the puddle in front of me. It was like wading into a cold, muddy ocean. First your calf muscles get goosebumps. Then your hamstrings begin to shiver. Finally your undies soak and creep up into your crutch. I was destined to spend the next six thousand metres with a very wet wedgie. Perhaps Mr. Clapton had a point.

K2

Traversing Botany Road is always a scary experience. For some reason the semi-trailer drivers don’t believe in pedestrian crossings and when the guy in the BP tanker finally saw me it was all I could do to get out of the way. A blast on the air-horn, and a verbal assault from the shadowed cabin, left me in no doubt that I had made him late for whatever life-saving appointment he was due to attend. How dare I use the zebra crossing.

In spite of British Petroleum’s attempt on my life, I eventually made it to the park with its peace and saturated tranquility. Tiny droplets danced across the pond as the concrete gorilla glistened in the gloom and the empty swing set swung silently in the breeze. Large grey eels slithered through the murky water while giant carp gorged themselves on the soggy bread crusts that were floating on the surface. The only sound out-of-place was the thwack and cheer from the dedicated golfers on the fifth tee of Royal Botany Golf Course. Seriously guys – golf in the rain?!? You’re crazier than I am.

Traffic on Foreshore Drive was at a standstill, which probably explains why the eighteen-wheelers were tearing through suburbia and not on the expressway. An A380 lifted lazily into the air on its way to Singapore or some other salubrious destination and a plump of swamp hens honked at me as I interrupted their bath.

K3

By the third leg of my journey I was in the zone. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Trampled Underfoot’ offered a raucous testament to the growing death toll of snails that kept finding their way below my Reeboks. A drenched Kookaburra perched on an old fence post looking more like a drowned rat than a kingfisher. I laughed at him. Is that ironic?

Water dripped from my wet hair as another wet hare shot out into the path in front of me. Perhaps he had been flushed from his warren by two days of deluge. Maybe he had been routed by one of the mangy foxes that are sometimes found lurking near the golf course. Possibly he was just late for the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Either way, he was certainly not expecting to run into a large bipedal mammal in this weather and almost collided with my right leg. I watched on amazed as the brown bunny zig-zagged across the track. His ability to change direction with such a tight turning circle was incredible and after a couple of 90s, several 180s and a full 360 degree backflip, he was gone.

K4

As the Nike app noted the completion of three kilometres I came across the only other person I would see in the park. An elderly lady with a floral dress and matching umbrella wandered up the wrong side of the bike lane. Her face was hidden, her shoes were tattered and I briefly wondered if she was a local, or lost. Before my thoughts could dwell on her I rounded the corner and there, sticking up out of the grass ahead like a signpost for addiction, was a syringe – needle down into the soil. I paused mid-stride and stooped to pick up the dangerous object. It was the third time I had found a needle in the park and I knew I would have to carry it with me until I could find a garbage bin.

After a fruitless five minute search for more sharp objects I resumed my run. Unfortunately I had begun to cool down and now my ankles were aching. As my Achilles spontaneously combusted I briefly entertained the concept of quitting, until I remembered the pothole in the pathway up ahead. In all this rain it resembled a little lake and my feet achieved nirvana as they plodded through the cold water.

K5

My pace was terrible! I really should remember to pause the app when I pause my run.

The gentle sprinkling had now become much heavier and a mist was rising from the grass. Small birds had stopped singing and the larger ones were nest bound or grounded. The family of marauding magpies that usually pecked at my ears as I jogged through their trees, were feasting on fat, juicy worms. Shiny black and white parents with their gangly grey offspring were so engrossed in their meal that they didn’t even pay me the slightest attention. A flock of large Puddle Ducks waddled across the road. White feathers, orange beaks and no fear of human beings made them an interesting obstacle, so I was left with no choice but to plow right through the middle of the brace. As the Catatonia song ‘Road Rage’ began playing through my speakers, Jemima let out a loud hiss and nipped at my knee. Perhaps she was related to the man from BP.

K6

Leaving the Sir Joseph Banks Park brought me back to reality. My floral friend was still meandering her way around the grounds in a wide arching loop. She had a bag of bread crumbs for the birds and I figured that she was a local after all. I found a bin for the dirty hypodermic and, frankly, I was glad to be rid of it. There are many isolated spots to seek solitude, but collecting thoughts and clearing your mind are not the only things people do there.

The Steggles van on Botany Road also pretended not to notice the pedestrian crossing and only missed me by the narrowest of margins. Live ducks, dead chooks, something fowl was out to get me. The sun was setting, light was getting dim and I picked up my pace.

K7

Suburbia was silent and still. Christmas lights twinkled from the windows of early decorators and wreaths hung in the closed doorways, but the families had settled in for dinner and the houses were locked up tight. There was no yoga at the cafe, no tai chi in the reserve and nobody to welcome me home except a battered old tom cat wanting his dinner. I think I’ll have leftovers tonight.