A cyclone went through my house on the weekend. A cyclone with a penchant for singing Bing Crosby dolls. I’m still in recovery mode.
It seems that a respected and much loved football player of 16 years standing was retiring and the local Leagues club was putting on a special function for fans. Just another interest I shouldn’t have shared with the offspring, I guess.
Hand on heart, I swear it was not I who introduced her to the concept of having a punt on the horses. Not Guilty, Judge.
Still weary, I am now travelling south across the border to a sheep and cattle town with an interesting history. An Old Girls road trip with the promise of museums, galleries, lavender farms, wineries, and farmers markets. My friend informs me she has home made soup in the boot of the car. Sorry, sweetie: a country town means a meal at the pub with a steak half an inch thick and enough blood to soak the fresh bread, washed down with something red.
It will be close to 0 degrees in Tenterfield, but I have a loud shirt ready for the Peter Allen Concert.
Enjoy your weekend peeps.
And daughter of mine, I know you snuck out with The Quiet Man DVD.