We’ve had an amazing light show the last few evenings, courtesy of the lightning storms over the coast, but not much rain. Enough to flush a bit of stuff down the creek, though. Bacon and eggs, anyone?

(What are bacon “style” pieces, by the way? I shudder to think.)

The sun was so sharp and crystal clear this morning that I almost expected something Biblical and post-Tempest to appear: a dove with an olive branch, perhaps, surrounded by a rainbow. Instead I got a toy zebra.


And another handball. I’ve bagged up about thirty of them and I’m going to take them over to Hamilton North Public School. There’s an endless supply of the buggers; wait five minutes and one will bob its way down the beck.

Old Mate was sitting in the long grass, sucking on the world’s skinniest durrie. I always come away from my chats with him with some homework; he’s a hard task master. It’s usually football related (“Who’s playing Saturday?” “Who’s coaching the the Warriors now?” “Who’s playing halfback for Souths?”) but today’s was slightly different. Neither of us could remember the exact terms of ┬áthe Wood Royal Commission and the Fitzgerald Inquiry. Which one was the Queensland one and which the New South Wales? Who was that Pommie copper they brought over to straighten them out? What did happen to Neddy Smith?

So many questions! Thank God for Google. ‘Scuse me, I’ve got work to do.