And, as you will read, should you read on, traumatised.
The Wild Man of Borneo took up a bit of effort, especially as he seemed to prefer talking in a strange French Creole.
God knows how the Prof got him to write a thesis in English.
Now my Frog ain't great; something slightly to the south of passable schoolboy.
But then, you're hardly likely to find a Bornean who speaks Norwegian.
So we made do.
It wasn't helped by the fact that, during the week, the bogans over the road had a noisy party.
There was much (bad) singing of "Born To Be Wild" at 5:30am.
Hence, not a lot of sleep.
Then on Sunday (15th), they had the whole McBogan clan around for a gathering.
The place was full of V8s, big blokes with tats, gals in crop tops and cut-offs.
You know the sort of thing.
They let one of the six-year-olds ride a quad bike all day.
Round their property, down the footpath, around the paddock next door -- which they don't own.
By about 4:00pm I'd had enough.
I went over and asked, very politely and quietly, would they mind giving it a rest.
And: that's why I've decided to stay in Minjup -- because it's a quiet, sleepy little place.
Or at least it was until they moved in.
I mean: two cars in our street brings out the residents to watch the traffic jam.
So the horrible noise stops and I decide to catch up on my kip.
A bit later, there are three large policemen at my door.
I'm quite shocked by this and still slightly somnolent.
"Ah", said I, opening the door in my pyjamas [strange place for a door] "les agents de la police!"
This fazed them a bit.
"Does sir speak English?" piped up the first cop with that over-polite tone they have when they're about to whip out their truncheons.
At this point, I was about to say "Non, rien du tout" and hope for the best.
But your average scuffer these days is well-known to be trained in multicultural-polyethnic-interunderstanding and would probably have sent for a translator.
(Gives a new meaning to the abbreviation PC.)
So I reverted to what passes here in Minjup as English and grunted a bit.
The long and the short was that the bogans had reported to the constabulary that I had threatened them.
This I vigorously denied.
It was good, I said, that the police were around here at last.
They needed to know about the crimes going on across the road on a regular basis.
We parted on good terms, these intellectual giants having worked out, after about five minutes, that I was most unlikely to threaten a bloodworm, let alone the bunch I've already described.
In fact, born to be mild.
But not before they made it clear that on no account should I enter the property across the road ever again.
Instead, they said, I should call them to the scene.
Fat chance, I thought, of any immediate action at 5:30am the next time "Born To Be Wild" is being massacred.
But I held my tongue.
Upside: Microsledge #2 is due today.
He's very big -- I saw his Mum, Sledgette Minor, just the other day and she looked like a length of hose with a basketball shoved into it.
So they've set today as his birthday.
At least this means he'll be a Sagittarian ... just.
The nicest people, I've tended to think for some years now.
Even tempered but with a dash of excitement just below the surface.
Then: who am I to talk?
The main Gemini trait is that we don't believe in astrology.
They're going to call him William or Wills.
What's wrong with Percival or Percy, I wonder?
