Cycling must be one of the craziest activities to undertake in this time of fast cars containing stressed, intolerant, anxious and angry people – and they are the good drivers!

Why expose yourself to the vulnerability of the edge of the road, on a flimsy contraption of metal or carbon fibre, attired in clothing which virtually asks for someone to run you off the road? I mean, come on. If you do have some innate desire to clothe yourself totally in Lycra well that’s fine, we all have our secret fantasies. But why for goodness sake, do it in public whilst placing yourself at the mercy of tons of manic metal?

At least on a motorbike the dress code encourages one to cover and protect vital areas of skin, rather than exposing it to the elements at large. For some bizarre reason, cyclists don’t think they can be affected by traumas associated with hitting the bitumen or gravel at speed. Lucky them.

Having said all that, I have recently been encouraged i.e. manipulated to get out and wobble around on a pushbike myself. This is something I haven’t really done for about twenty-five or thirty years. It’s amazing how age can weaken those parts of the brain, which would normally tell you not to bother.

In an ideal world of cyclists heaven there would be no hills at all, only level terrain and no need for “granny gears”. In fact gears would not be necessary at all. One could glide along effortlessly, with a regular and poetic cadence enjoying the scenery and breathing normally.

Dorrigo is not such a place. In fact, there are not enough gears available to cope with the hills around here. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a stunningly scenic area. The problem is, when you don the Lycra and head off into those wondrous hills on a pushbike, you don’t actually see much through the sweat and pain of physical exhaustion.

My cellmate – husband – and I decided on a nearby ride, which meanders through lush rainforest and farmland with very little traffic. It was a perfect autumn day with just a hint of coolness in the forest-scented air. We set off going downhill – which was great, no effort at all. Simply hang on, take in the scenery, and enjoy the myriad of wonderful scents and sounds engulfing us along the way.

We spotted a couple of pademelon wallabies. These little fellows are like the finches of the wallaby world; they’re so fast, sometimes you wonder whether you really saw one or not. They are petite and exquisitely formed; if they don’t move it’s difficult to spot them at all. We also disturbed a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos, who seemed to be screeching with laughter at our efforts.

So, we were cruising along up and down these hills under the pretence of enjoyment and exercise. Now, these two words should never be uttered together in the same sentence.  The problem is, when you go downhill eventually you must go uphill. One of my brothers who is an intrepid iron man and triathlete reckons, “Hills really mess with your mind.” He should know.

Now, up to this point I had coped pretty well with the whole ride and dare I say it, enjoyed myself as well. We came upon a particular downhill stretch that seemed to be threading it’s way inexorably towards the Underworld and Hades welcoming embrace. I decided maybe I’d had enough excitement for one day, and we should begin the return journey, before we started something I couldn’t finish.

We turned back up the hill we had so easily travelled on the downward journey. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought, “the granny gears allow me to cope quite well with this incline.” Five minutes later, still ok. “I must be getting stronger all the time. I can even manage to think coherently – should ride a bike more often! What’s all the fuss about?”

Suddenly, there it was up ahead. An aberration in the degree of incline. Maybe only fifty metres in length, it was enough to send my spirits down into regions never explored before. I mean, who the heck put it there? Why did they? Some sad, sadistic little road engineer totally lacking any conscience, who obviously hated cyclists, must have added a simple pen stroke to the plan. Did he realise the suffering he was to inflict on one such as I? Probably.

So, I collected my thoughts, braced my muscles, centred my being … and got off the bike to walk up that little stretch of purgatory; after which the rest of the ride seemed almost easy.

Looking back on the expedition I really did enjoy it. Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing? It’s a bit like childbirth, excruciatingly painful at the time and you wonder why anyone would willingly go through it; but the joy of holding the little bundle at the end overshadows the agony. Having said however, I would prefer to ride a pushbike these days than to have a baby!

I mentioned earlier the Lycra bike apparel which is common to cycling. Included in these items are the cycle shorts called nicks with all the extra padding. They make you feel as though you’re wearing incontinence pants – not that I’ve worn those myself – and if you’re a woman don’t expect to be able to wear just any pair of nicks. If you do, you’ll end up with a particularly chaffed saddle area and a big looking arse for your trouble. Apparently, there are specially made women’s pants which are designed for comfort, and reduce the appearance of the derriere. When I find them I may wear them on every occasion, regardless of the bike.

I seem to be obsessed with Lycra, but it’s a major part of any serious cycling experience. No matter what sport you participate in you usually wear clothing peculiar to the activity; you wouldn’t dream of scuba diving without a wetsuit and aqualung for example; nor would you sky dive in anything but a parachute. Therefore, if you are going to ride a bicycle you must look, peculiar.

In my opinion, cycling is for enjoyment and there’s nothing better than getting out in the fresh air on a bike. Car exhaust fumes don’t impress me at all. The thought of defying death on a major thoroughfare whilst inhaling poisonous gasses is not encouraging, it’s much more pleasurable to be out in the countryside with nature, although, there are some drawbacks there as well.

Consider careering down a particularly steep incline with the full-speed, wind colliding with your face, when a carpet Python of mammoth proportions is detected only metres from the front wheel. It’s spread the full width of the bitumen road, and if you hit it, not only will you make it angry but it will probably project you spinning off into a satellite. This was the scenario presented to my cellmate and I one morning, whilst savouring the delights of a bush ride. Luckily we both have the reflexes of le chat, and we applied our brakes amidst a chorus of profanities and skidding-emergency manoeuvres, leaving most of our tyres on the road surface – ending only millimetres from the reptile. The snake was totally unmoved by our antics, in fact, the carpet Python has a curious way of simply stopping in its tracks. If anything or anyone gets too close it will refuse to budge until it is ready to do so. The advantage of this was we were able to study the absolute beauty of this creature. I admit that I used to be quite unnerved by snakes of any kind, but now after many years of living in close proximity to them, I am able to admire and respect them. This was an extremely handsome specimen of about three metres long, with exquisite cream markings running the length of its shiny, body. Eventually, it moved leisurely on its way into the undergrowth beside the road and we proceeded to ride the bikes home on the wheel rims.

Cellmate met another of our local characters early one morning after we’d had some rain. This time he was riding uphill so speed wasn’t an issue. An extremely bedraggled, feathered agglomeration was noticed in the mud and slush at the side of the road. Upon further examination it was recognised as a young parrot, however, the mudpack denied proper identification. What a sorrowful vision it presented, barely able to move at all and shivering with cold. Now Cellmate didn’t have any backpack with him, and no way to carry the pathetic critter the five kilometres home. Then he remembered the small bag serving as a toolkit under the saddle; so placing said tools into the elastic waistband of his nicks he inserted the small parrot into the bag. This wasn’t as easy as he’d expected, because the parrot was beginning to warm up in his hands and become more alert. If you’ve ever tried to handle a wild parrot you will understand his discomfort, as it attempted to remove as many of his fingers as it could, with its secateurs-like beak. It was just as well he didn’t put the parrot in his nicks instead of the tools. So, he made it home and removed the parrot from the bag, amid a mist of expletives and blood – his not the refugee’s.

I must admit I didn’t have much confidence in the survival of this bird as it looked very depressed. Cellmate however, has a way with them. He has saved many different varieties over the years, releasing them back into the wild. Between us, we were able to clean the little feathered fellow, discovering a splendid and very young King Parrot, with a motley green head and back, and brilliant red breast. With an eyedropper and a pair of stout gloves we managed to get some water down “Charlie’s” throat, then placed him in a box to rest. I carried out a similar procedure for Cellmate with a beer and a recliner chair.

Over the next twenty four hours we fed Charlie with mushed grains and water, and as time progressed he became increasingly tame, until, siting on Cellmate’s shoulder he would preen his beard and cuddle into his neck. They seemed to have a certain understanding. When Cellmate suggested feeding me the same diet to obtain a similar result, I told him emphatically to stick the food into the birds mouth, or words to that effect.

Charlie was so much better the next day, Cellmate decided to return him to his family, if he could find them. It would have been so easy to keep him as a pet; he was gorgeous and had adapted so well to being handled. However, we both prefer to enjoy watching birds in the wild rather than to see them confined in aviaries.

He was placed in a cage to be driven back to the spot where he was found. It was so peaceful as we sat under the trees to wait, but it wasn’t long before we could hear the unmistakable calls of King Parrots above us. We hoped it was Charlie’s family; it was. Charlie heard them and began to call out which caused the wild parrots to come closer to investigate. The time was right to let him go. Cellmate reached into the cage to let the now tame Charlie out, and the bird showed his appreciation by taking a whopping big chunk from his naked finger. So you see, I’m not sure whether the tears in Cellmates eyes were of pure emotion or pain. I know that mine were tears of happiness, seeing the bird back where he belonged with his family in the forest.

The other advantage of cycling is its lack of impact on the environment. A bike certainly doesn’t cause too many greenhouse gasses. Although, the amount of carbon dioxide eliminated from the body, gasping for air whilst trying to maintain the oxygen in the overworked lungs and heart, may have an impact. The diet of the rider may also have a detrimental effect, as methane and other gasses are expelled via the human exhaust system. I wonder at the size of the carbon footprint from these emissions and how the LCA – Life Cycle Assessment – would be measured. Would it be over the life of the cycle or the rider? If you are serious about the environment, then these issues certainly should be considered before pursuing the sport of bicycle riding.

Cycling is great for the canine members of the family as well. I know that our cattle dog loves the bikes. We had a friend once who owned a Red Heeler who delighted in eating tyres. It didn’t really matter what the tyres belonged to as long as they were moving. I think maybe he preferred trucks; they presented more of a challenge. On many occasions, I recall seeing him with his teeth deeply embedded in the tyres of some unsuspecting visitor’s vehicle, his body revolving in motion with the wheels and a look of manic delight spread across his scarred, russet face. The funny thing about that dog is, he died of old age. Our dog simply enjoys running alongside or behind the bikes, and it’s about the only exercise which actually tires her out.

There’s a person who is extremely close to my heart, who purchased an exercise bike. At risk of losing my inheritance, I won’t divulge her name, but my mother knows who I mean. Now, getting fit in the comfort of the home is a great idea; it doesn’t matter what the weather is like; whether you live on the flat terrain of the coast or hills of the inland, the whole routine is consistent. You don’t even need to wear the Lycra if you don’t want to – although the privacy of the spare room is probably the best place for it. This person/mother loved to dress up at the smallest provocation, especially figure hugging, brightly coloured Lycra, but the helmet was out as it flattened the hair too much. So, this generic mother was on the exercise bike and riding as though she was in the Tour de France on the last leg. You could see the calories ejecting themselves like lemmings off a cliff; suddenly a dog or something must have run out in front of the bike and the rider went spinning out of control onto the floor, sustaining severe carpet burns and shock. It was as well there were no riders behind, or the whole troupe would have been wiped out. Maybe it proves the point that there’s no foolproof way to ride a bike. Or maybe, there are certain proven fools who shouldn’t ride a bike. I should explain here that no one was actually injured during this anecdote and that the character portrayed is entirely fictional.

There are many tales to be told about cycling, I have merely scraped away a few surface cells. In fact, I think I’m beginning to feel the need for another scratch …

Chuddly was a very calm and quiet dog. He didn’t bark unnecessarily, and his deep, dark, pool-like eyes missed nothing. He loved his humans more than the food in his bowl and he was alert to their every mood and movement. They gave him love and cared for him in every way possible.

Chuddly’s life hadn’t always been as rosy.

These humans were his second family. The first people he lived with when he left his mother and siblings didn’t really take much notice of him after he’d grown out of being a cute little puppy. They ignored his needs most of the time and he was left alone in the small yard that became his prison. His long, silky, mostly white hair became matted and dirty and his food and water bowls remained empty most of the time. One day, a large truck came and there was a lot of activity, with the furniture and everything in the house taken away. Chuddly thought he’d been left behind; he was wrong. The woman of the family came back and put him into the family car. He hadn’t been in the vehicle since he was a puppy nearly two years ago. “At last,” he thought, “they’ve remembered me!”

He was put into the boot and the lid was closed, leaving him in almost total darkness. As the car moved along he was buffeted and thrown around amongst the junk and dust which added to the scurf and grime of his coat and his short legs had trouble keeping him upright.

When the motion finally stopped he was so bruised and sick when he was lifted out and placed on the ground he threw up all over the woman’s red shoes.

“You stupid dog! Look what you’ve done!” as she aimed a kick at his belly. He was too quick however, and dodged her foot easily, which caused her to slip and fall into the mud beside the car. Realizing he’d better move fast, Chuddly ran, dragging the lead from her hand. He didn’t know where he was, but there seemed to be fences everywhere and no escape! His freedom didn’t last long, as someone grabbed his lead and halted his mad, panicky run.

The voice he heard was gentle and kind and he turned to see a woman with eyes like the sky and hair like the clouds on a spring day. Chuddly knew he was safe with her. She crooned softly to him and he felt as though she was leading him to heaven.

“That’s him!” came the harpy’s shriek. “He’s nothing but trouble, and he’s vicious! Look what he’s done to me!”

“That’s OK. Leave him with us and we’ll deal with him now,” said the gentle voice.

“My shoes and dress are ruined thanks to him. After all I’ve done for him too; he should be put down… ” The witch’s ramblings faded away into oblivion.

The angel – that’s how Chuddly thought of this new woman – squatted down in front of him and looked closely into his eyes.

“You don’t look like a demon dog to me. But you are filthy and smelly! We can fix that in no time.” She stood up and led Chuddly into a building smelling very strongly of dogs and cats. He hated cats; he did trust this woman though.

Chuddly was scrubbed with shampoo, then brushed and dried so at last his true appearance emerged. He was given a haircut which he desperately needed, so his eyes were able to see beyond the fringe, and finally placed into a secure kennel with fresh food and water.

“There you go little one. Get some food and rest and we’ll see about finding you a new home,” then the angel was gone. Chuddly wolfed down his food and curled up into a tight ball in the clean soft bedding, more content than he had felt for a long, long time.

He awoke to the sounds and smells of dogs all around. He could see other dogs in kennels like his opposite him. They were looking towards the main gate at the end of the compound and barking excitedly…”Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast!” they chorused. The noise was incredible.

A human in overalls appeared with a trolley smelling of food. He went to each kennel along the row and placed food into the bowls and patted every dog he came to. They all seemed to know him and the wagging tails could have turned the sails of a windmill. When at last he reached Chuddly he reached in and patted him with a, “G’day Boy, how’s it goin? You look like you could do with a bit of meat on those ribs of yours. Tuck in.” Chuddly did.

When he’d finished he heard a dog from opposite – a large, black Labrador cross, call out to him…

“Oy, what are you in for? Did you bite someone or something?”

“No, I chundered on my human’s foot though.”

The kennels erupted into dog laughter, which to humans sounds very much like barking.

“You little beauty,” said the Labrador.

“What is this place?” asked Chuddly.

A brindle coloured Staffy answered, “It’s where dogs and cats are brought to when humans don’t want them any more. The lucky ones are given new homes. The others just disappear.”

“You mean even cats are given new homes?”

“Yeah, it’s hard to believe isn’t it?” answered the Staffy.

Chuddly’s kennel caught the morning sun, so he lay down and dozed, satisfied the angel woman would somehow find him a new home.

Towards mid morning she appeared in front of him, crooning kind sounds. She opened the gate and clipped a lead onto his collar before leading him out to a huge grassy area where she let him go. There was a wire fence around the perimeter but plenty of room for Chuddly to run around and do what dogs do when they are let loose after being confined for a while! He could smell a multitude of doggy smells and was oblivious to the sound of being called. When he did look up he saw the angel laughing at him and he ran to her as fast as his little legs could take him.

“I don’t think those people who left you here knew your real name.” She stared into his eyes and asked him politely to tell her what it was. As he looked adoringly back at her, she said…”It’s Chuddly isn’t it?” At this he rolled over onto his back and wiggled and squirmed with delight. She knew!

It’s a strange thing, dogs and cats are able to understand most of what humans say. Maybe because they have lived with us for such a long time, but Chuddly understood the angel much better than his first family, and she certainly understood him.

The same day when it was nearly dark, the angel came back to Chuddly’s kennel and took him away again. This time to her car, where she sat him on the back seat on a special soft rug and clipped him into a harness to keep him safe. She drove for quite a long time, but the car was smooth and comfortable and didn’t make him sick. When she let him out she didn’t put a lead on him but allowed him to look around as best he could in the dark. It smelled fresh and exciting and he would have loved to explore a lot more but she called to him… “Chuddly!” He ran eagerly to her and was let into the house.

Inside, he was greeted by a man with very dark eyes which seemed to look right into his soul. “So this is Chuddly? I’m pleased to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.”

He was shown around the house from room to room by these two humans and finally taken into the laundry where there was a bowl of food and another of fresh water. He was so hungry he gobbled down the food; a snugly soft bed in the corner beside the hot water heater is where he headed next.

“Good boy Chuddly. See you in the morning,” he was left to dream away the night.

Chuddly was awake with the birds the following morning. At first he wasn’t sure where he was, and then it all came back to him. At the sound of footsteps he stood and stretched out his whole body watching and waiting for the door to open. At the sight of the angel he whined and writhed in absolute ecstasy, licking her hands as she tried to pat him and jumping as high as his chunky legs were able.

“Ok, little one, let’s go outside and see the birds!”

He bounded out through the open door to be greeted by the fresh air and the cold, crunchy, frost covered ground. There were so many smells to explore his nose became overloaded with delight. His hairy tail was wagging so fast he nearly took off! The sound of beating wings close above his head alerted him to the fact he wasn’t the only creature out and about.

“Look where you’re going,” came a cry from a large magpie.

At the same time a group of Rosellas who’d been quietly feeding on grass seeds scattered out of Chuddly’s zig-zag way.

“What the … where did you come from?” he heard.

“I’m sorry!” said Chuddly. “I was so excited I forgot to look where I was running. It’s a long time since I’ve been able to smell the grass and there are such a lot of strange and wonderful scents around here.”

“Well, alright then,” said the magpie. “I’m Carol, you’re lucky it wasn’t Grubber you disturbed or you’d have a chunk out of your floppy ear by now!”

The rosellas had returned to the ground and now surrounded Chuddly, although they kept out of reach for the moment.

“My name’s Chuddly, and the angel woman brought me here. I think I’ll be living in this place from now on.”

“Do you normally chase birds?” asked Bluey.

“No, not at all. I didn’t see you. I’ll be more careful in future. Is it alright if I chase cats? I can’t help chasing cats!”

“Hunt as many as you like! The more the better!” all the gathered birds agreed with this.

“Chuddly!” he heard.

“I’d better go now. I don’t want to be disobedient on my first day here! I hope we’ll chat again.” He turned towards the sound of his rescuer and raced into her arms nearly bowling her over on the slippery ground.

Chuddly settled into his new home very well. No longer was he confined to a tiny yard. He had freedom of the huge garden during the day and a warm soft bed in the laundry each night. He was able to spend most of his days with the humans, who he learned were actually called Angela and Fergus. They were at home most days and loved to be outside in the garden, or going for long walks in the forest or across the neighbouring farmland.

Chuddly found he was a great gardener. When Fergus or Angela were out weeding or planting, he would help them by grabbing the weeds pulled out and making sure they were dead, shaking them vigorously with his mouth before strewing them around the garden. Or else, submerging himself in the holes they hollowed for the new plants and sending extra earth flying as he dug furiously with his stubby front legs. He would emerge with his face caked with dirt, looking like a refugee from an earthquake. He found the delights of manure, unable to understand the angry shouts from his owners when he would drop his shoulder into a fresh cow dung and roll with delight. He also learned to lag behind them on a walk so they wouldn’t see him binging on a newly deposited cowpat. Humans missed out on so many pleasures!

We baby boomers can be heard all across the land complaining about the grey hair, wrinkles, aches, pains, and joints that don’t work so well any more – I say, maybe it’s time to give up the joints and have a drink or two instead.

You know you’re aging when gardening becomes a major part of your life. A day of open gardens and plant fairs is considered a great time.

Our ‘little room’ abounds in magazines akin to most wee rooms. This is where true pastimes dwell. A lot can be found out about people from these collections. As I was saying, we have reading matter … how many of us remember to take our glasses with us when on a mission? It’s often a rush to get the best seat only to find that our specs are in the kitchen or beside the computer and so we must squint at the pages and hold them out as far as the arms will stretch whilst dangling precariously on the edge like a young bird attempting it’s first flight from the nest … but I digress.

The publications in our lot used to be motor bike or horse oriented. Our boys had some mags as well but they didn’t seem inclined to add them to the public pile. When concerned relatives came to visit and left gardening and women’s glossies around, they were duly perused with a glass of dry white and then donated to the doctor’s surgery where they belonged. Articles on power to weight ratios, v-twins and carburettors, dressage, endurance and saddlery were much more interesting. Who cared how many different types of gum trees there were or what type of spray to use for mealy bugs? I planted green things and they turned into brown things. My husband, E-spouse, used to watch me come home from a trip to the garden nursery and say … “Why don’t you save yourself the trouble and just throw the plants straight into the compost now!” He didn’t understand the difficulty of trying to have a garden in a climate that was dry, at times hot, and most of the time bloody cold. Frosts were possible at any time of the year but in winter we had weeks of minus eight to ten mornings before the season warmed up to balmy dawns of minus four or five. A challenging scenario to the best of gardeners.

Well, since we have matured, gardening is more than an idle interest and the bike and equine magazines have been replaced with literature of a more botanical nature. This irks the hell out of the boys when they visit because there is nothing interesting to read on the job. It has however, pleased the other relatives who believe at last there is a decent library in the loo.

So to gardening. We now live in a climate which allows most plants to grow. Even the ones I place in situ. Green is the new brown. As most gardeners admit, many plants turn up their roots and compost themselves despite the best nurturing advice from Peter Cundel. This is where I’ve had my revenge. E-spouse is a keen gardener himself these days. Some of his plants die too. He now realises the difficulties of gardening, even in a decent clime. Unlike me, he cries over every skeletal form that appears on his horizon. How dare it die on his watch? I say, get over it and put in another plant.. Preferably, a variety already growing successfully in the area. Sometimes, I plant things which, once established don’t fit in the way I’d hoped. To me it’s no big deal to move or remove said vegetation. To E-spouse however, that’s a crime. It should never have been planted there in the first place. Why don’t I plan better? Can’t I visualise the desired outcome? At these times it crosses my mind that if I could do that, I’d probably never have gotten married. But then I wouldn’t have a beautiful pond in my garden. I had mentioned to E-spouse on a few occasions how lovely it would be to have a water hole where the many reflections of the trees would be mirrored on the surface and where the frogs could gather and do what frogs do. You see, I didn’t want a little pond the size of a child’s wading pool. I wanted a grand pond. A sprawling pond. E-spouse must have been bored one day because he began to dig … and dig … and dig. When he bought one of those miners lights – the ones that they wear on their heads – and appeared for meals with a face covered in red earth like some sort of ginger coalminer, I began to worry; maybe he’d lost the plot. My fears were short lived however, as the digging finally ceased and it appeared we were the proud owners of a large hole. Presently, we had torrential rain as only Dorrigo can, and the hole filled to capacity and more. The water gushed over the rim and down the hill. We feared all his efforts were for zilch and we would be left with a miniscule muddy concavity. Oh me of little faith! The hole stood its ground, the water drained away, and the rim remained intact.

The next step was to measure the area in order to get a waterproof liner – a groundsheet not a ship. Now, E-spouse has a method where you measure three times and cut twice, which is why I was a bit nervous about purchasing such an expensive item. He also has a mate who put a pond in his suburban backyard. Now, this fellow is a real stickler for having everything just right – have you heard that awful term ‘anal’? Well I think it applies to him. So he dug this hole and measured, and measured, until he was certain of the dimensions for his pond liner. He had the special facing made up in the factory so he didn’t have to make any joins himself and risk it leaking – which is a major problem with water features as E-spouse knows only too well …

E-Spouse once put a water feature in our garden. A pump, recycled water from a small reservoir at the bottom, up and over a wondrous construction of rocks, creating a small waterfall amongst the ferns and plants. It was a beautiful addition and the sound of tinkling water put my bladder on constant alert. The problem was, no matter how much cement and sealant E-spouse piled on, it leaked – the water feature not my bladder. Whenever we went to a particular hardware shop, which will remain anonymous, they used to call out … “Bring in the truckload of silicon – he’s back!” This went on for months – I have to give it to him he doesn’t give up on a challenge easily. Finally, it became too much. He took the mattock to the lot and turned it into a waterless rock feature and we could both relax. Back to his mate …

The liner finally arrived and this friend excitedly unwrapped and laid it out. This was going to be the best pond in the street. He decided to measure it before placing it in the hole – to be absolutely certain. Imagine how he felt when he discovered it was too big! Not to be deterred, he decided to cut it. After all, it was better to arrive too big than too small, wasn’t it? Measuring again, he marked it and cut the desired size. “Now it’ll be a perfect fit,” he thought confidently. Into the hole it went, moulding itself to the contours and settling into its shape. That’s when the problem became apparent. You see, in thinking it was too big, he hadn’t allowed for the depth of the hole; and now the liner was definitely not able to reach up the sides to the top. The off-cut liner had to be re-joined. He now has a beautiful pond with plants and fish and a dinky little fountain, but for some reason that bloody pool leaks.

E-spouse learned by his mate’s misfortune and ordered plenty of facing and a pallet load of glue. On the day we unveiled the goods to seal the pond’s base, all went smoothly and without mishap. Not a join in sight. We filled it, and lo, the next day it was still full to capacity without a hint of leakage. There is a plethora of special tape and glue sitting in our shed. I said we should offer it to E-spouse’s mate but somehow he didn’t think that was a good idea.

It’s funny the way we change as we get older, and I don’t just mean the ‘character’ lines that begin to appear. Gravity also takes on a whole new meaning as we struggle to oppose it’s unceasing assault on any part of us which is no longer as taught as it used to be!

However, all that aside, our attitudes and ideas, likes and dislikes also do an about turn. Our children grow up (ha! physically at least) and leave the ‘nest’, and decide that we parents don’t know half as much as we used to. So we begin to question what we want to do when we ourselves grow up!

Personally I love the outdoors and always have done, nothing’s changed there. Horses have been my passion for as long as I can remember (and that’s becoming a limited resource!). Now however, because of some apparently meaningless diversion, mechanical horses have replaced the equine variety.

It all began when my beloved…let’s call him ‘Windbreaker’ (I will leave to your imagination the reason behind the name) and I took a holiday up to Noosa. The weather was perfect, we found a fantastic unit right on the water, and gorged ourselves on fresh seafood every day. So, I hear you say, what does that have to do with motor bikes? Bear with me please.

At some ungodly hour one morning, we were awakened by the sound of very loud building type sounds. You know, the ones that bore into your brain so that thinking becomes an optional extra (my family would say that this is the case with me at all times)! The whole unit seemed to be shaking to the rhythm of the works in progress.

‘Right,’ says Windbreaker, ‘I’m going out for a while!’ Thanks very much I think to myself as I sit on the balcony to enjoy the ‘serenity’. Some time later, a different sort of rumbling to that from next door, merges into my consciousness.

Windbreaker appears, donning leathers and helmets and wearing a beaming smile. I try to imagine just how, merely wearing this gear will drown out the noise emanating from our neighbour, and how I will succeed in getting a suntan thus garbed, when Windbreaker informs me that he has hired a motor bike for the day!

As we smugly saunter out of our unit, the neighbour sheepishly appears to apologise for the noise. ‘That’s OK,’ says Windbreaker ‘I’ve hired a Harley for the day, figured it would be quieter than you lot!’

Harleys aren't dangerous

The 1450cc twin roared into life and we thundered off on the Harley FXD trying not to notice the jealous stares of those less fortunate in their cars, and began what was to be the most fun filled day of our holiday!

The hinterland of Noosa has some of the most beautiful country you will find anywhere, and the roads are simply made for bike touring, with gently rolling hills and plenty of corners.

Our first port of call was Kenilworth, where I’m afraid to admit (I’m a woose) I purchased some ear plugs! My teenage sons were so embarrassed about me for that. ‘The best part of a Harley is the noise!’ There were actually two benefits of the earplugs. 1: it lessened the road noise so that I could enjoy the surroundings, and 2: I couldn’t hear a word Wind- breaker said…so that I could fully enjoy my surroundings!

The tour route recommended by David at Aussie Biker Tours – www.aussiebiker.com.au – was just great. It takes in the most beautiful scenery, with plenty of opportunities to stop and appreciate some of the most inspiring art work I’ve seen for a long time.

There certainly are many extremely talented artists displaying their work in the various galleries scattered through the picturesque little villages and towns. One of the drawbacks of touring on a bike is the fact that it does lessen the shopping potential of the trip.  Although Windbreaker would (does) disagree on this point! I suppose I could always use Australia Post!

When we finally returned to our unit, we found a note of apology and a bottle of wine from our friendly neighbour, who assured us that the rest of our stay would be uninterrupted by noise. A very nice touch to end a wonderful day.

Life has a different slant on two wheel

Thus began my initiation into pillion riding. Windbreaker has always had motor bikes, trail and road, but so far had never been able to entice me into doing any serious bike riding

Upon returning home from our holiday, I began to suggest (aka NAG) to Windbreaker that he restore his old Kawasaki Z650B to road condition. A 1977 model, it had been under wraps in the shed for five years. I really wanted to do some more touring on two wheels. He was only too happy to oblige, and so we began some shorter trips from home which decided us that we really needed more of a cruiser style of bike. We are now the proud owners of a Moto Guzzi Nevada 750, which is ideal for us at the moment.

His beloved 77 model Z650B

His beloved 77 model Kawasaki Z650B

The problem will arise however, when I get my bike licence, because I reckon the Nevada could be just my size! That would leave Windbreaker without wheels, unless of course he were to buy a Californian…

Moto Guzzi 750 Nevada

The excuses pile up like dirty washing during a rainy spell. I’ve been here before. What is it called – déjà vu? Trust the French to have an exotic name for a common occurrence. Mind you, most things in French sound exotic. Even the word for ‘shit’ – ‘merde’ – doesn’t sound too bad; ‘pomme de terre bouillie’ – boiled potato.

I’ve found a French pen pal. Well, that’s what we used to call them. I suppose now it should be an E-pal. My high school French is useless for translating and I find myself resorting to Google translate to get the gist of the conversation. The problems arise when the translation is so literal. For example … “Pense tres fort à toi mon ami” – translates as … “Think you very much to my friend.” Mmmm … And … “I love our little chats”, becomes, “I love our little kittens.”

So, I communicate roughly in French and English, and she communicates almost fluidly in English and oh, so beautifully in French. The Australian slanguage cannot compete with liquid lyricism of the Gallic word form.

I’ve also found a very dear school friend with whom I lost touch about thirty years ago. We were absolute best friends from kindergarten through high school. We’d spend all day together at school and then ring each other as soon as we reached home. Although, by today’s standards that’s probably pretty tame. With mobile phones and text messages the youth are constantly in touch – for better or worse. How do you share so much of life together and then mislay it all? She has sent me some old photos, and of course the deluge of memories almost submerge me. I feel as though I’m relearning a foreign language. It might as well be French. J’ai oublié tellement. I have forgotten so much.

Which brings me back to my original thought – excuses.

Too hot. Too cold. Too wet. Too dry. Too windy. Toot toot …

My unfinished stories eye me from the file manager.

“We know you’re there”. They taunt me.

“I don’t have time”, I tell them.

Well, I do have time now, so where are you? I’ve looked in the garden, pulling out weeds as I go. I’ve looked in the ironing basket, pressing wrinkled, neglected items of clothing during the process. I’ve looked in the plastics drawer – they could be there actually because I closed it as quickly as I could before anything could escape. I’ve looked in the car as I vacuumed out the detritus of young cricket players given lifts home. I’ve looked on Facebook and stalked my friends. I’ve looked on Ebay and found some great bargains. I’ve looked in my head and the stillness was ear-splitting. The coffee machine gives me no answers – but a very potable drink.

So I sit here in front of you all – une fraude. I will pretend to be a writer and hope some talent will stick to me as I participate and listen to the adroit compositions of my companions. Maybe next time, I will dazzle all with my literary talent, found amongst the horse manure, which is literally expressed daily with ease about the open ground.

This is a story of a terrible crime of fashion.

Tuesday, May 8^th 2007, I was called in to investigate a kidnap/siege situation.

In my job nothing comes as a surprise.

The scene of the crime was a property called ‘Woolitch’ not far from the town of Baccabuggry.

The atmosphere when I arrived was full of tension. It appeared an angry mob of sheep had surrounded one – farmer Shorn Close – in a cunning and well-planned manoeuvre. They proceeded to herd him into the woolshed where he was baled up in pen number four. He was then bound and gagged with sky blue eight ply.

The spokesheep of the kidnappers was one Baa Baa Indigenous sheep and it didn’t take long to figure out he was the brain behind this whole daggy tail. Upon interviewing the said spokesheep, it transpired there had been trouble looming for some time. Apparently, farmer Shorn unable to sleep had been counting sheep over several weeks night after night, until eventually even the sheep themselves were unable to nap. This caused severe unrest amongst the flock.

I informed Baa Baa there seemed to be more to this story and maybe he was trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I am renowned for my ability to outstare my adversaries. Some call me ‘The Sheep Whisperer’. Baa Baa finally admitted there was more bulk to this yarn.

It seems this was no band of lice ridden, fly blown ovine. They had evolved over generations into this close-knit, superfine wool production team. Everything in the camp was low micron until the new workplace agreements were drawn up. They were not at all satisfied with the outcomes.

Somehow, I had to get a yarn going between Shorn and this disgruntled mob. Baa Baa agreed to allow me to enter the shearing shed in order to purly.

The sea of sheep nervously parted as I slunk through the middle, crouched low, whiskers twitching, ears forward and eyes piercing the frightened stares of the woolly gathering. My large, wet, black nose was taking in the multitude of scents. Daggy wool, sheep droppings, and the all-pervasive smell of wool fat to name a few. The long, black and white fur of my body was collecting particles of this ovine soup as we entered the shed. I would examine these forensically at my leisure.

I wasn’t prepared for the scene I encountered upon entering the shearing shed.

A breakaway group had placed farmer Shorn into the wool press and were threatening to turn him into Class AAA Woolitch Fine. His gumboots had been removed – no point contaminating the bale – and his hat perched askew his head, something akin to a lampshade after a baa room brawl. This was a true Graziers Alert. Relief suddenly replaced the fear and hopelessness in Shorn’s eyes, as he saw me nip the nearest hoggets out of the way.

“What have we here then?” I snapped. “Looks like a clear case of illegal wool gathering.”

A large wether named Isle, with mutton chop cheeks stepped forward. “Shorn and his team are fleecing us out of our rights. These new workplace agreements are all different. We are all the same here!”

“Yes,” came the chorus of sheep, “we are all the same baa none!”

“I was only trying to be fair Isle,” piped up Shorn.

“O.K. steady now, I think we can come to some arrangement here. If Shorn agrees to alter these contracts so all have the same benefits, will ewe agree to release him and cast off?”

There was considerable muttoning and mumbling as the sheep discussed the shear brilliance of this idea. Shorn was only too happy to agree to the proposal, and was visibly relieved when there was wholehearted bind off from the mob.

We walked free of the closely woven confinement, and I trotted proudly beside Shorn, his gumboots reunited with his feet. I held my head up, slightly arrogantly and waved my tail confidently in the breeze.

The many who had flocked to witness this woolmark event, cheered as the mob was dispersed and returned to their grazing. I arrived back at The Scotsman’s Yard to be surrounded by my peers, tails wagging, and howling a chorus of my favourite song… “Only ewe…!”

My home can only be found by those of my own choosing, a very special place to me. It lies cocooned within the growth of centuries of tangled flora and beyond the invasive eye of Google Earth. In this womblike environment I feel nurtured and safe; embraced by Mother Nature as she sighs and murmurs endearments, whenever I care to listen.

In the stillness I am actively aware.

Here, the leaves at the base of the tree have been disturbed. Smell the damp decomposing richness of the scratched earth, and the claw-like gouging as though a dinner fork has been dragged across what was once an ant’s nest. The culprit is not far away. I can hear his miniature bulldozer-like movement traversing the forest floor. Caped in spikes he has no need to be silent. Who would dare to question his right to roam dressed in such armoury? He freely invades the homes of the more industrious insects preying upon their social structure.

It has rained during the night and the morning mist gently touches the trees as it passes. Drip. Drip. Drip. The leaves relinquish the excess moisture and send it down. Toe-like tendrils absorb their fill before allowing the drops to dive into the earth, where they are lost into a universe beyond my senses.

This path has been travelled by many before me. The evidence is everywhere. A feather carelessly abandoned from the wardrobe of a lyrebird lies forlornly in the mud and slush beside my booted foot. Now see the unmistakable direction of a wallaby’s journey in the cadence of its tracks.

The sudden and raucous arrival of a family of black cockatoos shatters the muted whisperings of the breeze and a rain of hoop pine nuts begins descending through the beams of sunlight. The astringent aroma permeates the sinuses and adds yet more mulch to the forest floor.

I sit down on a moss-covered rock and feel grateful for its placement exactly where it is needed. At first, everything seems silent. I listen carefully and hear rustling in the undergrowth. It could be the echidna casing another ant’s nest, but it’s more likely to be a brush turkey scratching its way through its larder of worms and grubs. Yes, there it is slightly to the left of that tree fern.

While I’ve been busy listening and searching for movement I’ve missed something else. In a patch of sunshine on a rock amongst the maidenhair fern lies the coiled form of a carpet python, such confidence in its camouflage; it lies totally inert, unafraid. Even knowing it’s there; I must concentrate to decipher its incredibly beautiful raiment.

I am about to commit a crime. A crime against nature, maybe. A crime in order to save lives. It’s not the first time and probably not the last. This is a totally premeditated murder. A calculated, cold-blooded killing.

The ability to assimilate myself into the surroundings with little disturbance to anyone or anything is vital. My neighbours are so used to me coming and going that they don’t take any notice any more. If one of them disappears suddenly, the commotion is short lived. I have become extremely competent at stalking my victims, gaining their trust, and posing no threat. Almost friendly, always at a distance.

I know where he lives. I know what he eats. I can tell when he has been nearby. He never tries to hide his presence from me. In fact, he’s become somewhat bold about his forays around the neighbourhood, assuming his right of residence is a given thing as it would be if he lived in his native land. His predecessors migrated here many generations ago but he and his family will never be ‘local’; never accepted members of this community. I have vowed to kill him and as many of his family as I can track down.

He has assimilated frighteningly well. Language has never been a barrier to this immigrant. His culinary tastes are quite eclectic and his larder is not often empty. His cunning is legendary. Even barking and snapping dogs do not always deter his presence. He is a thief and a murderer.

I wonder at how easily I have slipped into the role of ‘ethnic cleanser’, and justify my actions as right. Sometimes the edges of right and wrong become blurred.

My next victim is a handsome specimen. Bright, alert, pale brown eyes peer out from his rufus coloured overcoat and he trails a magnificent tawny brush. His hearing is exceptional and he suffers my nearness with a casual glance in my direction. If he understood my true intentions I doubt he would be quite so inattentive to me. He’s beautiful to behold and it’s difficult to believe the amount of damage he and his offspring are able to wreak in this pristine environment.

Tonight will be his last supper. I’d hoped he would move on to another neighbourhood and enjoy the delights of a more urban existence. But unfortunately, his tastes have become far too accustomed to the small marsupials in residence here, who have no defence against his speed and competence.

It’s time. I return to my house and remove the gun from its padlocked cabinet. Such a sleek and well-balanced piece of weaponry. The bullets, small innocuous looking trinkets, I place carefully one by one into the magazine. It usually only takes a single shot from this small calibre .22 rifle. It’s reasonably quiet, and deadly in its effectiveness. I tell myself this to lessen the guilt.

I don’t alter my routine. It’s important for the victim to be comfortable with the regularity of my actions. I step out into the dusk of a full moon. There’s a light dew on the ground, which encases my footsteps. All is so peaceful, surreal.

There’s nothing outwardly different about this evening; but my mind is sharpened, intent upon the task at hand. I can hear the rustling and scurrying of the multitude of residents heading home to warmth and shelter. However, they are only the backdrop to the drama about to be performed.

I sit down upon the familiarity of my rocky platform and wait. It isn’t long before I smell his pungent and unforgettable perfume and hear his careful almost silent approach. Our eyes collide briefly before recognition relaxes their grip. He continues his perusal of the living larder around him and I carefully and intentionally raise the rifle to the level of my vision. I have him directly in the gun sights. My heart is desperately trying to escape through the bars of my chest, and yet I am deathly still. He turns and his eyes once more trap mine in their stare. “I am sorry, forgive me.” I squeeze the trigger and he is struck between those intelligent and suddenly confused orbs. His limp and now lifeless body jumps backwards before resting quietly and harmlessly amongst the detritus of the forest floor.

Slowly, lower the gun and methodically remove the magazine. Release the spent shell and check there are no more cartridges in the chamber. Flick the safety catch on – not necessary as the weapon is empty now, but I take no chances.

What do I feel as I move close enough to view my evening’s accomplishment”? I’m not sure. Certainly not jubilation.

It was necessary, wasn’t it? Someone must act upon the intrusion of feral species. Do I belong here? Am I an alien to a society of creatures who would see me as ‘not belonging’, of threatening their existence?

This cake is special.

It’s my third birthday. You can tell because that’s how many candles are on top.

There was a fete today – not because it’s my birthday but it could have been. My mother took my brothers and me. I had to wear my “good” dress which wasn’t fair because I don’t like dresses boys are lucky they wear shorts and shirts my dress is pink – I like pink the best – it has frills on it and ribbons my mummy makes our clothes I love fetes. I’ve never been before. It was so colourful like when the sun shines through my mummy’s crystal glasses but all around. There were lots of people and I felt like I was walking through a forest except it was moving. There was a white elephant stall but someone must have already bought the elephant before we got there because I didn’t see it.

I took my dolly with me. I’ve had her for ages. She comes in the bath with me at night and I wash her so she’s very clean. A lady asked me if she could see my pretty dolly. I don’t know why but when I held my dolly up the lady looked as though she had taken medicine. My dolly’s lost some hair and her eyes are a bit crossed and one arm is missing. I have a drawer at home; there are lots of bits of dolls in it. Maybe her arm is in the drawer.

I had some fairy floss. I love fairy floss. I especially love watching the pink webs spinning round and round until they jump onto the stick. When you lick it it disappears and tingles your tongue and gets on your fingers a bit like glue and that’s yucky.

When we went home in the car my brothers had a box and they were mean because they wouldn’t show me what was in it. My biggest brother Garry sat in the front next to Mummy and he had the box on his lap. It had string around the outside and I could smell something like a strawberry milkshake.

Later we had a party with Mummy and Daddy and my brothers. We sat at a table that was a bit bigger than a toadstool and there were lollies and a cake. It was covered in icing like the sky looks very early in the morning and had Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf on top. My brothers bought the cake for me at the fete. They said to the lady they would buy it for their sister’s birthday. They didn’t have enough money and that made them sad. The lady sold them the cake for nothing and said, “Maybe it was priced wrongly.”

I had a wonderful birthday but my brother Alan sulked because he wasn’t allowed to blow out the candles! He looked like he had balloons in his cheeks and thunder in his eyes!

The little girl with the cake is still there whenever I choose to remember.

Must be. Why else would I willingly tackle cleaning the kitchen? This job is left when everything else has been completed. I’ve already done the bathroom. Why is it males of the species are allergic to cleaning bathrooms – toilets in particular? Is it some secret women’s rite of passage – excuse the pun –the privilege of scrubbing the detritus of pleasures past? I doubt it.

I am not writing …

That’s why I’m desperate for activities which will give me excuses. I’ve even cleaned out the cupboard under the kitchen sink. I found a treasure-trove of underused sponges. What the hell have I used so many for? They’ve been there for a while you know, because I don’t use sponges any more; haven’t done for a couple of years now. I got sick of losing them. Another confusing component is the number of glass jars – without lids. There’s also a collection of lids not matching the jars. How did I do that?

I am not writing, a children’s story about birds.

I scrub and scour the grime of meals gone by from the shelves and tiles around this chamber of nutritious creation. Gordon Ramsey would be proud of me. I even took a toothbrush with lashings of gumption and scrubbed between the tiles! I used my husband’s toothbrush not mine.

The parrots have gone quiet.

I could clean the oven. Is the situation so dire? Not yet. The spider webs on the ceiling beams are becoming obvious even to me. Maybe I’ll end up like Miss Havisham, sitting at my computer in an old track suit and ugh boots, draped in a shawl of lace webs and staring into a void of light as the cursor mocks me with each pulse of unwritten lyricing.

I have a large drawer in my kitchen with a life of its own. It’s supposed to be for pots but I use it for plastic things. Everyone ends up with a collection of plastic things. This is mine. It taunts me every time I go near. I’ve tidied it on many occasions. Or was it a dream? Every take away container stacked neatly in order with matching lids next to them; the dreaded Tupperware sits, looking condescendingly upon all plastic containers of lesser quality. When I close this drawer the things move around and become a confused jumble, each vying for a place at the summit. The bottle tops however, head down towards the bottommost area where they can hide inside other containers stuck in these lower regions. There is a hierarchy here. The most useless items are always at the top where they can impede the search for the most utilized.

My desk could do with a dusting. How can anyone be creative around dust?

No wonder the birds are keeping away.

If it weren’t raining I would wash the windows. I say this even on fine days.

How can I write seriously with a poodle sitting on my lap? Actually, she sometimes does a better job with the keyboard. She definitely has a better imagination. She hears and sees things beyond my senses. Then again, if she were so smart she would keep the plastics drawer in order and write a book. Today is a perfect day for writing; which is why I’m not. You see, you’re supposed to suffer for your art. I’m not going to take a perfectly good writing day taking it so easy.

I am desperate. The meaningless tasks are running out. Huh! I haven’t tidied the sewing basket for a goodish time. Loose strands from reels of cotton and useless pieces of leftover hems cut from so many articles of clothing always too long, have become inexorably entangled. There are buttons from my boys’ school shirts; they are in their twenties now … the boys not the shirts. Somehow the buttons just used to ‘fall off’ and tears would rend the fabric of their shirts as though by magic.

There’s always the ironing basket. How desperate am I really? I once ventured right to the bottom of the basket. There were pieces of clothing there unable to be carbon dated. I vowed not to go thither again.

I am at my desk. I am not writing.

A lump of gold infused rock sits in front of me. It pre dates the boys. It was given to me clandestinely by an admirer in the depths of a gold mine, as we were taken on a tour with the pit boss on his rounds. It’s amazing how attractive I looked wearing overalls and Wellington boots meant for a six foot tall Welshman – especially in the dark. It was thirty odd years ago, and women weren’t usually allowed down pit. What a rare privilege. I can still see the embarrassed and shy faces of the miners as the open cage elevator stopped at each level to let them off. “Look straight ahead luv. Don’t go lookin at the rock face.”

If you’ve ever read the back of a public dunny door you’ll understand the types of poetry inscribed on the rocks beside the trolley car. I had to smuggle the gold out. Nothing was permitted to be removed from the mine. They had special gold detectives who were known to strip search the miners and the houses of the town as well. We were lucky … or not.

Where are the birds?

Maybe tomorrow I will write. Maybe tomorrow, the birds will come back to tell me their stories. I hope so, because I’m not quite brave enough to go to the bottom of that ironing basket yet …

Penny had a friend who was an absolute wizard on the computer. He understood the complex workings of them, and how to get the most out of their sometimes frustrating moods and idiosyncrasies. It seemed to Penny the majority of what Rory said whilst solving the many problems with the computer, was not the sort of language to be repeated in mixed company.

Penny sat down to do some writing, lowering her trim derriere on to the chair, her eyes adjusting to the flat screen in front of her. The blank page was always a challenge to conquer, and the cursor seemed to taunt her as it flashed persistently at her staring, bright blue eyes.

It was no good. The words refused to come forth. Maybe if she made a cup of coffee it might help. Penny was no stranger to procrastination; it was her closest friend at times. In fact, if Penny had a great story for every time she’d put off writing, she would be a famous author by now. Penny took her time making the coffee. The beans first required grinding. Placing a couple of spoonfuls into the machine she turned it on to hear the silence shattering sound of the motor as it crushed the shiny brown pods into a fine powder. Ah, that aroma. It always smelled much better than it tasted! Penny filled the cafetiere with water, placing the filter inside with the ground coffee, replaced the lid, and set it on the stove to heat. Next, she poured some milk into the ceramic jug which she placed into the microwave to warm.

All this activity gave her an excuse not to write anything. The coffee began to gurgle on the stove; Penny reduced the heat and waited for the soft purr and welcoming smell that meant the brew was ready. She took her mug of coffee back to the computer and sat down in front of the blank screen once more.

A knock on the door disturbed her reverie. Thank goodness. Another diversion from her writing.

It was Rory. He could smell coffee from a hundred paces. Rory lived in the flat next door and was a close but not romantic friend. Not that he didn’t want to be, but Penny made it abundantly clear that it just wasn’t on – Rory lived in hope.

“I thought it must be that time of day,” he began.

“I’m sure you must have a built in alarm that goes off whenever I put the kettle on,” Penny remarked. “It’s just as well I made enough for two.”

“So, what are you not writing about today?”

“As a matter of fact, I was plotting the story of a lost and confused woman with a caffeine addiction,” Penny replied.

“Well you certainly have the qualifications to write about that. How’s the computer behaving today?”

“O.k. I suppose. I haven’t actually done much yet.”

“Have you ever had a look at E_vade?”

“No, I can’t think of anything there I need. Besides I don’t really understand how it works.”

“I can show you if you like. It’s not as though you’re doing anything else.”

Thus began a journey which, although innocent in it’s intention, became an unhealthy obsession … Rory was to curse the day he’d mentioned it to Penny.

He began to show Penny how the whole system of E_vade worked, registering her on the system with a user name – ‘pennyheaven’.

At first, Penny just looked through the various categories of items without too much interest. Then it happened. She found the books.

Penny loved books. Whenever she went shopping, one of the first places she went was the bookstore. Hours later – or so it seemed to Rory – she would emerge her double glazed eyes shining on her pretty face. Now, it seemed she had a whole store of books readily available! Scanning through the list, she wasn’t really aware of things around her anymore. After a few tentative bids, Penny really began to understand the workings of the system. This was much more exciting than writing.

A few weeks later Rory began to worry about Penny. She was normally very fastidious about keeping her flat clean and tidy. It seemed that now, whenever he called to see her she was sitting at her computer on E_vade. There were clothes and books all over the floor and most other surfaces, and her long blonde hair which was normally bright and shiny looked dull and unloved.

Her bank balance began to show a steady decline as her bookshelf developed a steady incline. Maybe she had better buy another one. There were plenty to choose from on E_vade. It was as Penny was scanning her way through the furniture category that a listing caught her attention. ‘TIME OF YOUR LIFE’, it read. She couldn’t resist it; she had to click on the link to find out more. There was no photograph accompanying the listing but it said: Maybe it’s time you fixed up your life. Time you made some decisions about who and what you are. For a special “Buy it Now” price we can help you. Simply click on the buy button and confirm your bid – we will do the rest …

Penny felt a little concerned about the lack of information but she was also very curious. It wasn’t much money to spend for a bit of a laugh, was it? And there was something irresistible about the whole site. It seemed to draw her in somehow. Her excitement rose as she clicked the bid button. There was still time to pull out until she confirmed her bid. “You only live once,” she thought to herself. Penny clicked the button and there was a sudden rush of noise as she felt herself being drawn physically into the computer screen as though all the molecules and cells of her body were suddenly becoming a part of the computer itself. It reminded her of being on a roller coaster with her breath being forced from her body.

When the sensation stopped Penny felt empty, as though she didn’t really exist anymore; just like a blank page. In fact, her heart was beating in time to the cursor’s pulsing – she was the computer screen. When she tried to call out there was silence. She could still hear what was around her – although when the fan kicked in it blocked everything out – but she could only see what was directly in front of her looking out from the screen. This was spooky. After what seemed to Penny like hours, she heard the familiar sound of Rory’s voice calling out for her. She tried again to scream, but still nothing would come.

Rory sat down in front of the computer directly in her line of sight. He was wearing his frowny face, the one that he used whenever there was a problem he couldn’t understand.

“Typical, a blank page,” he murmured. “Maybe I should leave her a message on the screen, it’s the only thing she responds to now.”

Dear Penny, he began. I called in to see you but obviously you have found somewhere more exciting to be than writing your book. You know where I am and how to get in touch, so I’ll leave it up to you. I’m tired of chasing after you and getting no response. If you can drag yourself away from E_vade some time, give me a call. Love, Rory.

He hit the ‘save’ icon.

Now the whole time Rory was writing this, Penny could feel the words; really feel the emotion behind the letters being typed on to her. For the first time since meeting Rory she could actually understand what he really felt for her. Up until now she hadn’t taken him too seriously, thinking he was joking about their relationship.

Suddenly, Pennie’s thoughts began to manifest onto the screen as words …

“I’m so sorry Rory. I didn’t know I was hurting you. I don’t know where I am or how I got here, but I’m stuck. I wish you could hear me!”

“What the…where are you? Your words are appearing on the screen in front of me. How are you doing that?”

“Somehow, I have become the computer! I can see you and hear you; I can even feel how you are feeling for goodness sake! Can you help me?”

Rory was confused, unable to get his mind around what was in front of him. None of the nerdy computer courses had mentioned anything like this.

“Explain to me exactly what happened. Be as accurate as you can, and don’t leave anything out.”

Penny’s thoughts appeared on the screen as she detailed what had occurred to her, as much as she could remember.

When she finished Rory was more confused than ever, and incredibly worried.

“I need to think about this for a while. Maybe you should do the same.”

With that he left the computer – or Penny, and went for a walk to clear his head.

After he’d gone, the computer slipped into screen saver mode, and Penny’s face appeared randomly around the desktop.

The block of flats were near the beach, and this is where Rory headed. Maybe if he could get some clean fresh air it would help him to figure this problem out. He strode along the sand just above the tide line until he reached the rocks at the end of the beach, where he sat, staring out to sea with the salt infested breeze suffusing his lungs. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there meditating, but eventually the sharp points of rock and broken shell began to permeate his consciousness, and his backside. Time to return.

When he went back, the computer was ‘asleep’, so he pressed a key, and lo, the cursor was blinking at him once more.

“What happened? Everything went dark and I couldn’t see anything at all,” wrote Penny.

“You just shut down that’s all.”

“What are we going to do? I can’t spend the rest of my life like this!” she exclaimed.

“Maybe you need to think about what it is you would like to spend your life doing. That’s not as silly as it sounds. If you could get out of there, what would you most want to do? How could you change the way your life was heading, and make it better?”

“Well, I guess I’d take you more seriously for a start. Fancy being on intimate terms with a computer; gives a whole new meaning to ‘laptop’ dancing. I suppose I have been wasting a lot of time mindlessly scanning E_vade. I don’t know why, it just got me hooked like some sort of drug. Ok, when I get out of here I’m going to finish writing the story I had in mind, maybe I’ll write it longhand it’s safer. Then I’ll try to make it up to you for treating you so casually. In fact I’ve been rough on quite a few people. But how am I going to get out of here?”

“Ok, I’ve been thinking,” began Rory. “If I go to E_vade and search for ‘soul mate’ maybe something will turn up.”

While he was talking he’d signed in to E_vade and done a search. What he found made him laugh out loud.

‘Pennyheaven’ – As new, brain hardly used. Slightly confused but willing to change. Wants a long-term relationship with genuine partner. Height 165cms. Weight 50kgs.Eyes – two, mainly blue. Hair – long and blonde. Attitude – conciliatory. Buy it now, or forever hold your peace.

Of course he hit the button, and suddenly Penny appeared before him in the flesh, as though by magic. There is a time when you first waken from sleep when you aren’t quite sure where you are or even if you are. That’s where Rory and Penny were. Neither of them really knew whether it was real or a dream. The one thing they were both sure of was, they belonged together.