Spent a pleasant day touring the brickworks south of the river.
I’d been informed that the pavers circumnavigating my vast expanse are called ... wait for it ... “Folklore Cobblestone”.
So I was stuffed if I was going in there with a sample called that and looking my usual self: Rivers kit, handbag and pink RayBans.
Accordingly, scruffed myself up in old Hard Yakka pants, knackered boots and a flannel shirt with a glimpse of blue singlet beneath.
Suited the ute.
Natch, not a single “Folklore Cobblestone” to be found.
But the swings swung and the roundabouts turned at a recycling place where I was, to use own her term, “serviced” by a charming lass of some 30-odd summers.
She could have sold me the rubble pile.
When she took my address, she told me she used to live in Moribundup and rode her horse past my place.
Not Amanda-Lyn, no, not by a long piece of calcium sulfate.
But in retrospect I should’ve dressed a bit better.
Needed a long black on the way home and dropped into a Dôme establishment.
Got out the makings for a smoke on the way out.
Took my time, made a nice one with Zig Zag liquorice papers.
I heard a young lad at the table opposite ask his Mum, “What’s that man doing, Mummy?”
Amazing: he’d never seen a smoke being rolled before.
Just one more sign of age and passing time, as Proust used to say.
The radish has been interesting but.
Just love the tennis season and listening to all those inexperienced newsreaders trying to pronounce the players’ names.
Has it ever occurred to you that just about every tennis player in the world has either a first name or a surname you’ve never heard of before?
Maybe they make them in a plant somewhere and deliberately give them bizarre names.
Like pavers?
