Golden Syrup and Robertson Pies.

Milo training

At my age being able to open the lid on the golden syrup assures me of a fine week-end ahead. It doesn’t take much! Is it my age and diminishing physical strength or are manufacturers heeding the warnings on lurking terrorists by ramping up security in tightening access to foods? It isn’t just lids. Try opening vacuum packed salmon or an eye fillet. It all looks so near and yet so far. I sometimes just give up and put the item back in the fridge for another day and just peel the Kipfler potato or boil a simple non challenging egg. We now just buy free range eggs and just hope the chickens realise our previous close bond with them and our sacrifice.

It reminds me of many years ago when I had a pet Leghorn rooster. He too used to come next to me in the car but in his own wicker basket. You could never put a seat belt on a rooster. It was at a time I worked in an office and the Leghorn used to like being with me. One day someone stole him when I was having smoko. I put reward pamphlets with his photograph on telegraph poles around Ultimo for his return. A week later, I heard a familiar cockle doo di doo. He was outside my office door in a box of shredded office documents. I tried in vain to read bits of the shreds in order to find out who had committed this cruel and dastardly act. I never found out.

A propos Milo’s mad bike and riders barking/biting disciplinary action. We did make it to the Robertson pie shop with H on one side of the front seat and Milo on the console in the middle. He loves a nice drive. We sometimes seat-belt him in but the harness is so complicated it slipped beyond my skills this morning. I also wanted to relish my golden syrup triumph for a bit longer. We were very hopeful of a good bike rider biting session when, after our arrival, we spotted a number of bikes outside the shop. Most of them Harleys with huge shiny exhausts. Milo pricked his ears in keen anticipation.

We did not have to wait long when a couple approached their bike. He looked as if he was approachable for a good bite. Just having eaten his pie I don’t think I was too far from this assumption. I gave him a well practised synopsis of our problem with Milo. I showed him the plastic drink bottle with drilled holes in the dark blue cap. ( remember how the ‘squeeze the water in his face’ was shown on U-tube)? He listened attentively, but when I proposed he start his bike to let Milo have his way and possibly bite him, he was not enthusiastic. However, his girl-friend seemed very taken by it. She smiled broadly. She no doubt thought a bit of fun would do no harm. She got into the spirit of things straight away. A good and feisty woman.

Perhaps sitting behind the motor- bike as a pillion rider was not her idea of much fun on a Saturday morning. Roaring up and down steep mountainous escarpments might be more the domain of men. Women like adventures of the spirit and mind. Hence, perhaps the idea of a boyfriend getting bitten was at least a safer and more creative option. A change from the normal routine. Mind you, I am speculating here. The pro and cons of things linked to the sexes can get one in a lot of strive lately. It is a precarious balance I do not want to divert from.

I could tell that he thought his masculinity was on the line. You can’t ride a Harley and not succumb to dogs chasing you and here was a chance to go one further, and get bitten. An old ditty must have come to mind; Be a man and not a fool, pull the chain and not your tool. His girl-friend was very pro the trial. He checked his bike leggings and even put on his helmet. Milo was keenly watching, wagging his tail. His Waterloo had arrived. The bike was started up and Milo flew into action. Helvi was ready with her squeeze bottle. All stations on the alert.

… And Milo? Milo attacked the back tyre. That was his aim. He would go for the legs of the bike not the legs of the rider. In doggy world it makes good sense. The motor-bike is the dog. If someone walks a dog and comes across a cranky dog. The dogs fight each other. The owner doesn’t get bitten. Helvi gave Milo the water torture and he did stop. So… We thanked the brave man and his girlfriend who could not stop laughing. They turned into the road to Kiama down the steep escarpment.

We hold high hopes for Milo being cured…

Mr Vlad. Putin cummen all toot’n for ‘n root’n to Brisbane.

It hasn’t been confirmed but I have it from an unconventional peanut sauce that Putin is coming to Australia’s sunny Brisbane. He was after all invited to the G20, and as most of those coming here are rogues and thieves, it was thought, nay welcomed, he might as well join the tribe of merrrimen and merriwomen. A huge table made from finely hand hewn Eucalypt and French polished with a mixture of gumnut and wombat faeces is now on its edge getting all those little alarm buttons fitted, just in case someone unexpectedly says …boo or, in extreme cases, says..poo. In that case machine-gun toting marshals will drop down with the help of long coiled up ropes (unexpectedly) from the Candela-bras high up, jump on the huge table, say stick’ em up, and shoot blue-berry muffins at the perpetrators.

The meat pies are already on high alert, lamingtons are now in lock-down mode behind reinforced glass counters and Morton Bay oysters have been told to practise coitus interrupt us. (just in case) On previous occasions, many male oysters committed mortal sins by leaving their mass before communion, hoping to avoid an oversupply of little baby oysters… Strictly, a no no in their neck of the salty environs. It is so difficult being a pious girl oyster.

I remember many decades ago, going to a very ‘in’ and ‘up’ market restaurant/ nightclub. The place where one could expect Rod Steward or a fake Elvis to pop in. Ladies were sitting at the bar smoking from elegant cigarette holders. It was during a period where women had their hair held back with large Rhino horned combs. They would blow out smoke and at the same time scan the diners making an or having their entrée.

I was with H and wearing a wine-red safari suit with a huge belt, not around my pants but around the jacket, that looked like phoney gold.(it was), but at least it gave me a bit of shine (where there was none). H was pure Scandinavian and so honestly told me I looked totally nerdy. Could I refrain from speaking at the dinner table, please?

Anyway, I was so nervously unsettled. All the expense which started off with a taxi and a generous tip. The first course was ‘ spinach stuffed oyster’ which were so expensive I developed an immediately headache. I mean stuffed oysters? I had a main dish of pigeons guaranteed to have been bred with reckless abandon high on the Southern Highlands but with a nervous disposition, making them extra lean.

There was so little sustenance in that meal I had to take a pain-killer while sitting on the toilet, reflecting also what a huge mistake it was to try and join the ‘in it folk.’ I left hungry but relieved we got out of the place.

I remember the nightclub/restaurant was called ‘Rogues’.