Greetings, readers. You were probably wondering if #9 was ever going to arrive, but I have a very exiting reason for the delay – I was finalising arrangements with Penguin Publishing to take my novel, No Idea, a rollicking tale of Australian country life due out later this year on Amazon, and possibly even on this site.
As a teaser, I am serialising chapter 16, The Great Nundle Dog Race, for the blog. Nundle and the dog race really exist, and you would have a lot of fun if you went along and joined in. It’s only once a year, mind.
The poem is a reminder of the discomfort of over-imbibing.
Today’s painting is a diptych, that is, two canvases which combine to form one picture. The subject is a terracotta horse from the 2200-year-old Qin dynasty tombs. The medium is acrylic, and the horse itself has sand particles mixed into the paint for texture. This is a length-adjustable horse: its length depends on how far the two canvases are placed apart.
The Great Nundle Dog Race - part 1
Andrew was up and dressed before the first of his backpackers arrived. He felt that if he examined each of the girls’ faces carefully when their eyes first met, he could possibly work out which of them had graced his bed the night before.
They arrived together in a bunch. The three girls were wearing identical knowing smiles, with little eye moves towards each other, before they chorused “Good morning, Andrew!”
Klaas was sporting a man-to-man grin.
Oh god, they all know! Andrew thought. The little beasts share everything! And he was still none the wiser as to the identity of his seducer.
He cleared his throat and managed to say, “Let’s make breakfast quick today. We’ve got a big day ahead of us and we have to get ourselves organised.”
“Yes, well, we gave Jessie a shower with us at the quarters and dried her with Morgan’s hair drier, then we fitted her out for her costume. She’ll be dressed to impress!” Vivvi said proudly.
And which of you undressed to impress? Andrew wondered. He took the opportunity while drinking his coffee to examine the two English girls. Did he prefer one over the other?
They seemed quite alike. Both were of medium height, and were dressed similarly in jeans, tee-shirts and sweaters. Both their faces bore regular, unremarkable features. Morgan’s hair and eyes were lighter. Viv was a bit thinner. Morgan’s voice was South London, while Viv sounded quite posh. Both had let their hair grow over their shoulders. Both were good-natured and quick to laugh, and most importantly, both could cook.
He just hoped that they didn’t plan to share him.
Andrew and Klaas took the Fairlane to the petrol tank to be topped up, and Klaas offered to drive.
“Will you sit in the back with us, Andrew?” Vivvi asked.
“No.”
“Oh,” (pretend pout), “why not?”
“Propriety.”
The two English girls screamed and clung onto each others’ shoulders, laughing; the Dutch pair consulted their cell phones, and Andrew climbed into the front passenger seat with a very straight face.
“I have a certain status in the community to maintain,” he said over their smirks and giggles. Hold on, did he recognise that giggle? Whose was it? Finally he gave them all a smack on the head with a handy pizza brochure and instructed Klaas to begin driving.
Pale Green
a truly pale green:
surely somewhere in nature’s bounty
a pale green is seen.
Not in the green of a snow pea
or a snappy bright French bean;
not the green, green grass o’er which I pass,
nor in trees is the pale green seen.
against a tree I lean:
I note the trunk’s small hollow,
its surrounds so smooth and clean.
A glassy flash I see within;
can it be – a whisky bottle!
full to the top with the amber fluid
which I imbibe, full throttle.
I feel nauseous and unclean.
Back home, I glance in the mirror,
to see a perfect pale green.
~END~
