Author: Penny Potter

Freedom. Adventure. Curiosity. Laughter. Nature.

The funeral and the fox.

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This is one of the first stories I wrote as a journalism student in 2007. Baffled by the high standards at the University of Queensland I consumed large quantities of alcohol, in true journo style, and let the creative juices flow.

Here is it, unedited.

The Funeral and the Fox

 

I was sitting around a bonfire with my family one Saturday night. We had a raging fire between the mandarin tree and the patio.  After a couple of glasses of wine on this particular night the phone rang at around 11pm. We’d finished our roast chicken and fluffy damper when I answered the phone, it was my grandfather. He sounded strange and anxious when I passed the phone to my dad before we were told that my Granny had passed away. Granny had died suddenly that afternoon from a heart attack; she went in style in the middle of a party.

Dad left early the next morning flying down to Cowra to be with his family and plan his mothers’ funeral. My mum and I were to stay at home and look after things back there for we had a troublesome fox that had kept coming round and killing our chooks, we wanted to stay and protect them.

In the meantime, only two nights after my dad had left for Cowra the fox came around looking for a feast of fleshy chicken. This was the fifth time Mr Fox had visited our chicken coop and it was decided that he had to be killed. Over the phone dad described to me the way to aim through a rifle and to the amusement of his bereaved family he guided us through getting the rifle from the gun safe and loading the gun. I still remember dad saying to me “line-up your v’s on the rifle and shoot the bastard, just shoot the bastard before he kills anymore of our chickens”.

Half an hour later the fox was heard again and mum grabbed me out of the shower then we set out with the rifle. Our fox hunting mission began with me in my pink flannelette dressing gown, nothing underneath, and hair still went and half conditioned from my shower just moments before. I wore my ugg boots on the wrong feet and carried the 22 rifle under my right arm while mum held the flailing torch. The lack of light didn’t make for the best conditions and as I fired a few shots into the fox’s direction beyond the woodheap I knew the quest would be in vain. The shots proved to be unfruitful and by the time my mum and I were to return from Cowra nearly all of our chooks would be gone from the run.

It seemed ironic to be hunting while mourning, yet I had rarely hunted before and never mourned so the new experiences were different in every sense. After a disturbed sleep mum and I traveled to Cowra for the funeral of one of the most wonderful women I will ever know.

During this time I had been fighting off a feeling of anxiety alongside my grief for the last time I spoke to my Granny I had played a trick on her. I rang her up pretending to be Jane form the Sydney Morning Herald conducting a poll onAustraliaand the monarchy. After 10 minutes of Granny telling me her ideas on the constitutional monarchy,Australiabecoming a republic and the governor general I revealed to her my true identity. Hahahaha it was all exceptionally comedic!! She laughed and laughed at the time but I wondered whether it was appropriate for final words with your grandmother.

The funeral was beautiful, Granny packed out the church and church hall with people also standing outside listening through speakers. Myself and two other cousins read Bible verses and I left with a feeling of relief. A big weight of grief had been lifted off my shoulders. After the service an old lady in sedate black dress came up to me and began speaking. She said “Hi Penny how are?” I said I was fine and returned the pleasantry. She continued talking to me; “Penny I just wanted to say that I was with your Granny when she received the “call” from the Sydney Morning Herald. She was so pleased with the joke, she came back to us at the table and spoke so highly of you. She told us all about your achievements and what you were doing at school, she was very happy”.

I felt amazing at that moment and I will never forget the gift Joan gave to me with those words for despite the sobriety of the occasion I felt content and the pain of my Granny’s death had started to hurt less.

It was only two weeks after Granny’s funeral that Mr Fox died. One Wednesday morning just before dusk my parents heard the fox with the last of our chooks and got a good shot in as the sun was rising, dad “killed the bastard”.

It’s a dog’s life.

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The chocolate lab puppy is bringing the street together.

By day it sits behind its fence and whines. And pines. All day it cries at being left alone.

My heart is quietly breaking for the poor little pooch. For at least the first minute I am feeling sorry for it, wishing I could share an ice-cream with it, or something revolting like that. It does not take long, however, for my innate dog-hating streak to come to the fore.

It’s never going to give me any peace, I begin to think of the demonic puppy. She is intent on destroying my day.

The neighbours, however, must be mad about dogs. Crackers, I reckon. They’re constantly trudging over to play with Lily. A few have adopted her out of the goodness of their hearts, or perhaps they cannot tolerate the whine, which quickly becomes as annoying as the reversing truck noise. They tuck her under their arms and carry her back to their own yards to throw plastic toys around.

It’s all very cosy.

Babies have less community value, I am sure. Toddlers with blonde riglets and skipping ropes do not get as much attention as Lily is courting.

So, what is it about dogs that turns grown men into apple strudel?

My mate Michelle is mad about her canines, a love I have certainly never shared. She calls her chihuahua, Baloo, the Love of her Life. I recall one horrible night Michelle camped in my bed and Baloo had to come to. It almost killed me, all the scratching and licking. It still pains me to think of that fitful night and the trouble I had washing the sheets.

She reckons Baloo can read her moods. He licks away her tears and give her cuddles on the rainy days.

Eww, I think.

And her new dog, Romy, is not much better. The Sh*t Dog, I call it. And it is definitely not a well-behaved little girl. I keep telling her that the menace would be better off living at the Pound than pissing all through her house, but apparently there is some sort of loving attachment there.

Frankly, I struggle with the loving dogs thing.

My brother’s border collie, Sasha, she is a very cool dog. I even enjoy throwing a stick at her and watching her dump it hundreds of metres up the beach. I get another stick and repeat.

It’s a game I tire of long before she does.

This aversion of mine does bother me. Often I wonder if I missed the dog-loving chromosome. Maybe I was bitten by a beast as a child. I do blame my parents for taking the cat route when I was young, although I have no love for cats either.

The problem is more serious when I scratch the surface. Perhaps I am still single because all of my boyfriends are turned off by my anti-dog stance. The lads’ dreams of weekends at the beach throwing sticks to wet dogs are dashed when I reveal my true colours. Sometimes I can see the moment they stop looking at me as a potential mate and start seeing me as a callous, heartless hater of man’s-best-friend.

I am considering taking on a puppy when I move to Charleville. A strong burly dog would go well with the broad-brimmed hat and boots. I could even teach it to jump in the back of the ute. Oh, and there is the romantic streak of mine, just hanging out a few streets away from Reality.

If my puppy had the Lily-effect I would have the new neighbours eating out of my palm in no time.

Although, according to my brother, if I get a dog from the Pound I cannot take it back in a year when I am done with it and ready to go overseas again. And the thing would probably have a whine just like Lily’s.

My brother suggested a goldfish may be a better option. How condescending! True, but condescending.

Still, I reckon I can learn to love a pooch. I have to, surely, if I am ever to pin down a bloke.

And perhaps the bark is worse than the bite.

What’s in a flatmate?

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There’s nothing quite like being busted by your flatmates.

It’s their mirth that I fear most.

Tonight, for example, I was on my way home from a run that was more ambitious than I had intended. My energy was lagging and I desperately wanted to slow my aching limbs and stroll along at a more sedate pace. But, somewhat miraculously, my motivation did not lag.

I wanted to keep running so badly that I began punching the air. The movement impelled me and I picked up speed rather easily. You see, I had seen a shirtless fit dude doing similar running punches on the path a few days earlier and thought that may be my ticket to a flat stomach.

It was a great sprint to the bubbler, the punches keeping me going like the boost you get when a musician pumps out their best song at the end of a gig. It kept me kicking.

I was aware I looked like a lunatic, madly punching the air as I screamed along the pavement, sweating and panting.

I made it to the bubbler and then went on my merry way.

Later, as I was strolling back from the supermarket, (yes, I am one of those people that loves to extend my post-exercise glow and stench through Coles) Shorn Lowry sends me a sneaky little text.

“Pen were u running listening 2 eye of the tiger, I saw u punching the air.”

Oh, the cheek. Luckily, he already thinks I am crackers.

“Rage against the machine,” I reply.

The incident got me thinking about the relationship we forge in share-houses.

Some flatmates are dire. There is the sort you wouldn’t want to be placed next to at a spacious restaurant, yet there you are showering in the same recess. Watching them empty your shampoo bottle and secretly stealing away their cheese in the dead of night is tiring a charade.

Those folk are not the ones we like to share a wall with.

The ones that can cook and enjoy cleaning, they are the real winners in this contest.

It is enormously pleasant to wake in the morning and find a steaming cup of tea sitting by your bed. Once you are cool about them sneaking in and watching you sleep in your birthday suit, it’s a lovely gesture.

I have been thinking recently about the evolution of strangers and friends shacking up together and sharing fridge space.

Is share-housing a new phenomenon? Did the cave men shack up with the cave kids from down the gully?

Is it common in countries where there is a greater focus on family? Or is it mostly country kids, trying to get by in the harsh big cities, who are lucky enough to know about flatmates?

At last count, I have lived with 23 people. That does not include boyfriend’s flatties, who often fall into the flatmate category, by default.

Of those 23, some become very special. It is easy to forge a friendship, for when you share a house great intimacies are carried through the walls. Also, your buddy in the room next door is likely to catch you running like an idiot. And then tease you about it, which is certainly the way to my heart.

The saying goes that you don’t really know a person until you live with them. It’s true, I reckon.

The friendships are as solid as my eternal love for Ben Harper. And Johnny Depp, gosh he was fabulous in the Rum Diary.

It’s a different friendship to the way you interact with mates from school or work, or lovers even.

I believe living with people is one of the most honest pursuits we have in this society. Try hiding diarrhoea in a house where the bathroom adjoins the living room. It’s a disgusting home truth.

Your flatties, they know who is dossing in your bed on a rainy Sunday. They know, at most times, how much liquid income you have, give or take. They probably know about most of your allergies and a few of your fears. Your doctor should ask your roomies how many units of alcohol you consume a week, if they want an honest answer.

A good roommate knows your parents by first names and the relationship status of your siblings. Often childhood pets are mentioned over dinner.

Flatmates will figure out fairly quickly if you have nudity tendencies, a penchant for wearing dirty clothes, take drugs or, God forbid, if you have a secret Shakira habit.

And recently I heard about a beautiful Spanish girl that had an intervention forced upon her by some cranky house buddies. The early-morning Shakira was too much. There were tears.

It’s the kooky little habits that make the relationship so honest, I reckon.

A good flatmate will enrich your life. They see in you what you sometimes miss in yourself. That can be creepy and weird, but it’s enlightening.

And the fun you can have playing Jenga, sliding around in your socks on the polished floor, destroying each other with the Super Soaker and, more generally, teasing each other about eccentricities; that fun is boundless.

Flatmates, I reckon, are like teapots. A crappy one will spill stuff everywhere without a consideration. And you will hate it for ruining your moment-of-pure-unadulterated-bliss cuppa. That teapot can do no right and should be swiftly taken to Vinnies for some other sucker to suffer.

A good teapot, however, will pour you a sweet brew when you’re nursing a broken toe. It will worm its way into your heart.

Say hello, wave goodbye.

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I do not mind going without a bed. It’s fun camping on your mate’s couch for a night. I also have no issue with the lack of dining room table, in my post-garage-sale world. Eating off the floor makes dinner an adventure with Aladdin. I am certainly not concerned about having no bedside table; that’s like camping, but with a highly superior mattress.

There is one thing, however, that is harder to swallow.

Fresh out of the shower today I grab a slice of bread. I’m hurrying slightly, anticipating the Vegemite fix. Then it happens.

The toaster is gone. It’s tray, still teeming with years of burnt toast crumbs, sits in its place looking rather pathetic; like a burnt-out car sitting on the side of the road with no tyres.

This must be some sort of sick joke, I think.

Just in time, I recall that nobody wanted our cheap toaster. I duck outside in the rain and rescue it. It lives to burn my toast for one more day.

The moving caper, it’s bizarre.

Yesterday, as Shorn and I were tucking into some medicinal hot chips with gravy, we reflected on the stark house. It is still full of soul, emotion running around the joint as if a ghost tour is about to start.

Without a dining room table, we now have a ballroom. I did some waltzing in celebration. And some head-banging for good measure

“There could be a furniture truck on its way here with all our stuff,” Shorn says. I agree: are we moving in or out?

Hah, nice try. We are furniture-less. There is no truck coming to elevate us from the floor. My water glasses will continue to sit next to the bed on the ground, not at eye level.

We are lucky to have our burnt bread in the morning.

And I’m excited now. Sure, it still pains me to see my roommate’s worldly possessions entering a box. Knowing they will be placed on a shelf far, far from where I will be, that’s the kicker.

But here we are, in the midst of an almighty adventure. And it is fantastic to have a polished dance floor to slide across with socks on for the next two weeks.

Let the dancing begin!

Garage Sale Man strikes again.

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It is unusual for me to be making moolah on a Saturday. Often, I’ll hand over some coin in one meaningless pursuit or another. Last week it was internet IQ tests. I won’t be seeing that ten bucks ever again.

Today is an exception. The much-hyped garage sale, my first foray into getting people to pay for old junk that I would have had to pay to have removed, became a reality. It was beyond brilliant. I might as well have hoodwinked a man I liked into buying me dinner at my favourite Turkish restaurant.

The moeny was a boon, I won’t lie about that.

Passing stuff around to the young guys up the street, for instance, who were delighted to be getting a bargain on the bedside tables that were clearly unnecessary to their existence, but which made them happy – that’s a much nicer feeling than the soul-sucking Ikea experience.

I was hoping, however, that at least one good story would come from the sale.

My leisurely attitude towards the sale, which featured me going straight from a party, without sleep, to managing the money tin, that’s an interesting story. But not one my co-saler is prepared to laugh about yet. Too soon, apparently.

The best moment of the day came as we were closing up. My bed, and some much-needed shut-eye were just moments away. The junk that no-one wanted, the real crapola, was back in boxes, ready to go to the guilt-free tip, Vinnes.

Then it happened.

Three ladies stroll in casualy and decide they want to examine every garment in the bags we have just packed away. For half an hour they rummaged with a vigour that I usually reserve for pushing flower girls out of the way at wedding when the bouquet is in the air.

In the midst of their does-this-skirt-match-my-hair banter, a serious punter saunters into the sale.

His garage-sale-ish attitude was as obvious as two people enjoying some hanky panky on a camping trip. As if recalling a tactical military operation, he tells me how he scoped us inside the yard sitting around, saw a bookshelf and then, BOOM, spotted the garage sale sign. He was so delighted with himself, just to be walking around our yard full of junk. It was an impressive attitude.

And, I couldn’t help it. I pounced.

“That tv cabinet is going for ten bucks,” I told him, of the eyesore that we were having enormous difficulty getting off our hands.

He walked around it slowly. It was like a guitarist checking out a new pair of strings, an utterly unnecessary amount of attention was lavished upon the task. “I just don’t know what I’d do with it,” he says, sounding very interested in the ugly cabinet.

“And it’s just so big.”

I waited, patiently, for I knew this guy had ten bucks in his wallet that he really did not want anymore.

“Ok, sold,” he screams at me, eyes feverish.

To say that I saw the sucker coming from two doors down, is an understatement. He also purchased a fax machine, a few books and an empty plastic water bottle, for good measure.

And with the finish line so clearly in my sight, for the annoying girls had left with a brilliant bounty of old clothes, the story I had been waiting for arrived.

The guy backs into the driveway in his matchbox car. I am not even sure how this dude got his lanky frame behind the wheel, so tiny was his vehicle. And the challenge of getting the huge tv cabinet home with only the shirt on his back, the tiny car and his wits; that was not going to be a problem.

In fact, that was the challenge Garage Sale Man had been waiting for.

In the blink of an eye a blanket was tossed on the roof of the car and these guys had chucked the tv cabinet on top, seriously lowering the vehicle to the ground. Tie-down straps were produced from the garage-sale section of his car.

Garage Sale Man is always prepared for a yard sale. He searches out opportunities to get crappy furniture at very low prices and to create significant transportation problems for himself.

I was highly impressed by the tie-down shenanigans. But the real glory came when they had to leave.

“How do we get in the car,” Garage Sale Man’s less garage-sale-ish mate asks him, somewhat uselessly, after trying unsuccessfully to open the door for about a minute. Yes, the doors had been tied shut with the tie-down straps.

Garage Sale Man did not even shrug. Nonchalantly, as if the situation was as ordinary as getting home from work and flicking on the telly, he tells his friend “it’ll have to be Duke’s of Hazzard style, mate.”

He jumped through that window as if there was a pot of gold on the other side.

Oh he was so pleased with the whole situation, grinning from ear to ear. A cheap, crappy cabinet and a door that wouldn’t open were all he wanted on this fine Saturday.

Non-Garage-Sale Man, he was rather put out and also a bit plumper than Garage Sale Man. I was almost in hysterics as he struggled to push himself through that window. Just now, I’m still smiling, wondering how he got out.

So we may have rid ourselves of plenty of junk today. And I deprived myself of some sleep. Hey, we even made a tidy little profit.

But the real winner was Garage Sale Man and his red matchbox car. As soon as he drove out, honking and smiling, I closed the gate.

Nothing and no-one can beat Garage Sale Man  on these occasions.

Photo of the day: Finch Hatton Gorge

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My brother just woke up one day and decided he’d had enough of living close-by to family. Maybe we were dropping around cakes too often. Or he didn’t see the point in having a journalist sister who was really quite useless to him. Perhaps if my car wasn’t permanently needing repairs, and he wasn’t a mechanic, things may have been different.

Or maybe Rob was sick of our other brother, Nick, living so close and constantly pestering him to play cards and bringing around beers. Or Nick might have cuts his lawns a little closely

It could have been mum and dad, with their cheery disposition, that pushed him over the limit. Or living so close to the beach.

All I know is that he trotted off to Mackay leaving me with just one brother, one beach house and no mechanic.

Secretly and occasionally in a gossip-ish tone to my mother, I wondered whether Mackay was such a great idea.

If we would all be forking out for airfares, why not shoot for Airlie Beach, or Cairns. That would be, well, cool. But hot, of course. At least the reef was close by. And I’ve heard great things about the Daintree. And Port Douglas.

But ever since my brother decided the way to get out of a “pantsing” when he lost cards to our older brother was to don about 18 pairs of shorts, so Big Bro could never get to his junk, I just knew Robbie would have a clever idea tucked away in his plans.

Here it is. Finch Hatton Gorge, less than an hour from the steamy, industrial machine that calls itself Mackay.

Oh yeah, Mackay: the town is teeming with coin. People are Making Money in Mackay. Mining, sugar, anything you tough will turn to gold in that place. Except the mudflats at low tide, they are a recipe for brown, slime-coated legs.

So back to the picture. A little adventure through the cane fields takes you to a tucked-away National Park which is home to this stunning water hole.

It’s a crunchy, winding bushwalk, about 20 minutes, to get to this sweet little spot. Apparently there are other spots further on, but not everyone thinks a full-blown hike in the mountains is as fun as doing the equivalent distance in the mall.

However, this spot has everything you need. The water is exceptionally crisp and those rocks are a perfect height to jump off.

“That’s nothing,” I’d scoff at the people on top of the rocks, bracing themselves for a huge leap. “It’s not the bloody Harbour Bridge,” I think, quietly and to myself as the suckers quietly shat themselves at the top. Hesitating helps no-one.

Then you get up there and you may as well be leaping into a pool of alligators. It’s terrifying. And exhilirating.

So, Rob’s move to Mackay. I’m cool about it now. He did buy a house with a pool and a spa. And I figured out it ain’t so far from the reef.

I’ve moved on and found a new mechanic.

Oh yeah, and he has proved there are real adventures on his new doorstep.

Lovely you and lovely me.

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“Hi Penny,

So sorry to hear that you are moving but hope all goes well for the future. Good to have met you.

Love Tony. xx.”

Just when you’re getting ready to sling a bag on your back and jump on a plane, the awesomeness of your life is bought into clear focus.

This letter from our gardener, a lovely, lovely man that I have met about five times, is one of many little gems that have been sent to me recently. The message is clear: “your life here is sweet. Aprreciate it.”

To cope with the influx I have found myself getting horizontal on my bed all the time. Straight back to bed after breakfast. A few hours in the middle of the day. A few hours at night. I stare up at my paper prayer flags, a few of my favourite posers and, of course, my dreamweaver map.

I do love being horizontal, there is no better position for lazing. But this recent phase, I think it’s a last ditch attempt to recognise the beauty within my current lifestyle. It’s a pointless pursuit, obviously, with just two weeks left in Sunny Brisbane, but I feel I’m being pulled back into my comfort zone. And lying on the bed helps me to process what I’m giving up in pursuit of a change and a challenge

Having mates up the hill in a house which I still have a key to, that’s special.

Rocking up to the markets on a Saturday and running into a few pals in an equally hungover state. Sharing a coffee with those dudes is also special.

Calling a mate and asking them over for dinner, them saying yes and having someone to cook for, that’s pretty cool.

Gathering a crew together and heading to the beach for a weekend on the sand, it does not get much better than that.

And, yes, that’s what I’m giving up.

Handyman Tony, the lovely dude who would rock up, weed the garden, drink all of our coffee and then bust in on me while I was getting changed, he’ll soon just be a memory.

I admit, I’m scared about leaving this cosy, beautiful existence I have made for myself. But make it once, you can make it again, right?

“I must say a word about fear. It is life’s only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever treacherous adversary.”

I came across these lines in The Life of Pi. To me, that says, harden the f*** up.

Finding lovely people, such as Handyman Tony, is a matter of trust. For example, while cruising down a back street in Pokhara in Nepal my brother had a motorbike pull up alongside him. It was about 1am and he was on the way home from a beer sampling.

The local on the bike stops and starts chatting to my brother. Of course, Nick asks for some advice on pick-up lines. After exhausting that avenue of conversation, the random dude asks if Nick wants a ride home. “Aw yeah, do I,” he  exclaims enthuiastically and jumps on this stranger’s bike.

A few blocks later, Nick jumps off the bike, shakes his hair out of the non-existent helmet and thanks the stanger for the ride. “Do you want some money,” he asks, again, enthusiastically.

“No man, of course not. It was just a pleasure to help you out,” the kind Nepalese man replies, graciously.

So I must conclude that these lovely people are everywhere. And creating meaning from passing interactions, that’s up to me.

This story has a happy ending, that I must be confident of. But more importantly, let’s hope it is a bloody interesting story.

Maybe you’re a bit of a dag, deep down.

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Recently my bosses have made some pretty stark observations about my character.

One of the most accurate came today as I told my employer about listening to Sweet Caroline on Local ABC Radio and singing along like a grinning fool in traffc. “Yes, they play some fairly daggy music on Local Radio,” my boss tells me. “I usually switch off when the songs come on.”

“Maybe you’re a bit of a dag, deep down,” he adds, for good measure.

Personally, I don’t think you have to scratch very far beyond the surface to find my inner dag. It is usually lurking at the edges of my consciousness. “Wear those jeans with joggers,” the voice urges me.

For years at school and university I was that fool walking along, terribly pleased with myself for no good reason, oblivious to being such a walking fashion disaster.

What am I wearing here!!

The best part was that I never knew. It did not matter how many times my well-meaning, baffled flatmates told me that no, you cannot wear flowers with flowers or stripes with flowers, or to just throw out anything with flowers on, still I would end up drawing people’s gazes for all the wrong reasons.

Partly to blame is my childhood, and formative teen years in a little country microcosm on the New South Wales’ Northern Rivers. I don’t want to point the finger, but my mum did not always set the best example. Exhibit a:

My mum bought this coat for me when I lived in Armidale. I used to leave it in the cloak room, hoping madly that somebody would steal it. One night I thought luck had sailed into town. The coat had disappeared during a particularly vigorous dance-off at the uni night club. I did not even mind walking home coat-less in sub-zero temperatures, such was the delight at being rid of the eyesore.

Of course, the next morning my next door neighbour bought it back to me. They thought I had forgotten it, bless them.

Some things have not changed after six years in the city.

My flatmates still remark when I come home from work: “get dressed up for the office today, did we, Pen,” in a beautifully sarcastic tone. I look down at my cargo pants and singlet and wonder how I thought it was acceptable office attire.

Hindsight is a killer for daggy people. There are always photos, waiting, lurking and ready to mock.

I still spend an average of two hours getting ready for a night out – most of which is deciding whether the purple flowery pants are too lary or whether my plain green jacket goes with the white singlet and plain jeans. I have no answers for these truly terrific questions. Make-up is still limited to tinted moisturiser and mascara.

Often I am told by bus drivers that I “probably shouldn’t be running in that dress on a main road.”

But there is a slight silver lining in my struggle against dagginess. I have some great pals who have shed some of their more fashionable clothes to the Penny’s-wardrobe-needs-a-makeover charity. My best garments are cast-offs from people with a slightly less developed inner dag.

The second beacon of hope is much more fulfilling.

I’m not so concerned these days when I get it wrong. I’ll tack my errors under a banner of individuality and I revel in not looking the same as all of those well-heeled folk. It was not an attitude I had planned when I was trying on my mothers stilettos as a child. Back then I believed I’d look like Jackie Onassis when I grew up.

In reality, compliments on my attire set me on edge. “Are you taking the piss,” I demand of anyone nice enough to tell me my botched outfit looks good.

This predicament begs the question, who says what’s daggy and what’s not. Shorn Lowry wonders what people will think of me when I move to the outback later this year.

Perhaps I will come across as a city slicker. Or maybe they will see through my high-qua;ity cast-offs to the inner dag.

One things is certain. I doubt I will be blending in.

Photo of the day: Salamanca Market

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Have you noticed the seasons are a’changin’?

The slight nip in the air at night, sneezes that rock you to the core – those hot summer days are just a figment of memory and autumn is here in all its glory.

Early autumn reminds me of a beautiful weekend I had in Tasmania last year. Here is a snap from The Salamanca Market in downtown Hobart.

Look at the colours of these vegies. How vibrant!

When I move to Tassie with one of my great pals, let’s call her the Tassie-Lover, we will go to the market most Saturdays, I think. She will buy some of those Chinese greens up the back and they will rot in her fridge. I will opt for a generous bunch of purple carrots and they probably will not even last the short stroll to my grand house over the Derwent.

The weather will be fresh and delightful, with sunny days and brisk nights. We’ll look at art and, honestly, we probably won’t work much.

Perhaps the Tassie-Lover will paint. We will both drink coffee.

Ah, how nice is it to dream, especially in early autumn.

Curiosity kills no-one.

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One fine, balmy afternoon at pre-school I conducted a little experiment with the railings on the side of the stairs. I’m not sure what my intention was, but, of course, I got my head stuck and it would not budge.

Apparently they had to call the fire brigade to cut me out of the tight metal bars. The Jaws of Life may have even been bought in; I can’t quite remember how it ended.

“You were the only child ever to ever get their head stuck in those railings,” my mother recalls, a note of pride tinging her voice. Or exasperation, I can never tell.

It is one of many exploits that have stemmed from my rather active curiosity. I’ll be the one standing over the road kill, watching intestines ooze out, saying “wow, how weird do possums look on the inside. Cool!”

It’s a habit that has gotten me into a pickle many times. But, gosh, there are some funny stories.

Recently I was in Sydney at an Egyptian Coptic Christmas dinner. The food was spectacular: authentic, full of garlic and generally delightful. Alongside the normal baklava there was a tray of multi-coloured and multi-shaped sugar-syrup-soaked pistachio treats. Every cut of meat was on the table somewhere. Some of the loveliest ladies I have ever met urged me to eat more, more and more. Even as I undid my top three buttons they were packing me lunch for tomorrow.

Part of the cultural experience, for me, and the pearler that ignited my curiosity on this particular night was in the bathroom. The toilet seat had some unusual knobs on the side.

So I sat down and moved the dial to the right. A large jet of water shot into my bottom at speed.

It was an almightily strange sensation. “That was interesting,” I thought, with a look of consternation on my face and a dripping wet bottom.

But, still, my curiosity was not satiated.

Wanting to see how it worked, I stood up and turned it on, once again, to full power.

Straight into the eye, the bidet water went. My shirt and skirt copped some of the flow, some dripped down into my shoe and another spurt went across the room and dripped down the mirror.

“Well done, Pen,” I congratulated myself, laughing and marvelling that, of course the water is going to come out at an angle.

We all had a good giggle about that on the way home. It’s a good story, I reckon. But, most importantly I now know what it’s like to be shot in the eye with a bidet. Cross that one off the bucket list.

At times I think I will do anything, just for the experience. The sensations: smells, sounds, a different touch or feel, and especially tastes.

These experiences do not need to be positive. That’s not the point, at all, in taking a whiff of festering home brew or rotting mango. What is it like, I continually ask.

I’m not talking about taking pointless risks, that’s about adrenalin; curiosity is about learning. If you push yourself, you realise your limits.

For instance, now I am fully aware that a bidet squirt to the eye is slightly painful and quite drenching. I even know the squirt angle.

So, what’s the use of that? Well, aside from my new knowledge, I reckon it is a fine story and that’s all I need.