Whilst hors de combat, I had time to contemplate all manner of obscure matters, starting with a consideration of what Cher may or may not have been wearing under the green overalls.
Reminded me of a Texan I once knew called, strangely enough, Martin.
She was a marine geologist and came around sometimes after months at sea wearing utterly horrible jeans and a woollen sweater that gradually, visit by visit, came to resemble (in both looks and smell) the sheep it was made from.
But under those ... "Mon Dieu!", as Poirot would have said were he not a Belgian poofter.
This, in its turn, led me to a web search on "house martin" which, it turns out, is also known as the plumber bird.
Strange synchronicity, but these things do happen.
The only parallel I have for this is one of the English language's greatest neglected pieces of literature: B.S. Johnson's Christie Malry's Own Double-Entry in which Christie's GF is known as "The Shrike" because she works in a butcher's shop -- though no mention is made there of sausage smoking.
The general conceit of this, sadly, unsung work is that Christie keeps an accountant's double-entry ledger to tally aggravations the world has inflicted upon him (DR) with the recompense he has managed to obtain by carrying out return acts upon things in general, aka THEM (CR).I shall now be doing something similar following the reason for my indisposition.
This may also be catalogued under "Things I Hate About Fremantle".
For it is the case that I made the mistake of visiting those environs towards the weekend.
A friend of a friend was having drinks to mark the almost-completion of his new dwelling, but a brick's throw from where I once lived.
Mostly, as you'd expect, a bunch of unreconstructed hippy Boodists sipping Darwin Stubbies and smoking dubious herbs.
So ... to cut a shortish story shorter, I went out to the ute to get my phone so I could call the Sledgettes needing, as I did, a bed for the night.
On the way back in I was abruptly set back.
That is, the newly-installed security door was so finely meshed as to look as if it were not there.
Swa hit no wær, as we say in proper Scandinavian English.
And there was a bright light on inside so I didn't see it.
Bang! Straight on the dome.
Accordingly, yours truly, dear reader, now has a shiner of astronomical proportions.
All would have been well had I thought to wear the Breton fisherman's hat -- returned to me that very day by a distant Swedish cousin who had borrowed it some winters ago after losing all his hair.
But no: it has to be blamed on the flyscreen itself acting as a secret agent for THEM.
So in the DR column I now have "Damage from screen door: $420.50".
Will report on how I may or may not be able to balance the (s)ledger.
Heath Sledger, dark night joker
