Creek bingo

A few weeks back – a windy Saturday morning – I was down towards the TAFE with Jambo. Gum nuts were raining down like hail from the trees by Islington School and the figs at the TAFE were swaying back and forth like sharpies at a Daddy Cool concert. I was watching this bloke up in a cherry picker and thinking, well, it must be a great view but there is no way I’d like to be him!


Then, in the way of these things, the bloke in the cherry picker sent me a picture that he’d taken on that windy Saturday morning. It’s not quite of me taking a picture of him, but … maybe!

view from cherry picker

Turns out he was up there checking out the fig trees as part of TAFE’s ongoing landscape management program. We messaged back and forth a bit and found that we both had an interest in the gasworks, though neither of us could cast any light on what’s happening to it.

Then today I went for my regular perambulation when I saw a truck sinking a monitoring hole. Not another hole! How much monitoring does that site need? Surely we know that its pure poison for the top 5 metres. But it feels like something is afoot.


It’s probably entirely unconnected but the holes in the creek are getting some attention too. Or should I say “two two”. Or even “two little ducks”.


I could even say, “Life begins at …”


Or stretch it even further with “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I’m …”


The slab replacement program, if such a thing exists, hasn’t been down this part of the creek for a long time, maybe since the Big Flood. The result is that there are lots of cracks in them and, every time we have a heavy downpour, the fine soil washes out from behind the slabs leaving a hollow void behind them. Apart from being unstable it means that the creek develops a series of short-lived sandy beaches.


I rather like seeing the bird prints in the sand; it’s a pleasant reminder of the drain’s earlier incarnation as a tidal creek.


Bird prints of course allow me a clumsy segue into an update on the mother duck and her nine wee ones who were in danger of being picked off by Slow Joe Crow the other week. I didn’t hold out much hope for them but, who’d a thunk it, I counted mum and eight chicks the other day. Go mum!


Which just goes to show that life really is a game of lotto. (See how I did that, tied it all in with the title? Sometimes I even surprise myself!)

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