We've published the next 7 entries for challenge 9

I watched as the gardener removed my 30-year-old mandarin tree from its corner spot in the garden.   Riddled with borers and citrus leaf-miners, it had to go. I’d rescued it from neglect in my parents’ yard and it had given me a bounty of crops over the years. I’d perfected marmalade and experimented with vodka-based liqueur, relishes and gelati. 

Friends looked forward to my citrus-time dinner parties where mandarins featured in every course. I snapped back to reality, remembering the yearly battles with the scourge of all citrus growers: the bronze orange bug, also known as the stink beetle. These unwelcome sap suckers appeared in spring and attacked the tree’s young shoots. As they changed from an attractive bronze colour to black when fully grown, their shield-shaped armour become tougher.  Whacking them into semi-consciousness with a broom and stomping on them was too hard. And sucking them into a vacuum cleaner was impractical.

 I resorted to squirting them with pest oil, before watching them fall into a bucket of soapy water. There, take that! But some don’t go quietly and display a cross-eyed, revengeful, don’t-mess-with-me look after the spray. They got their revenge by swooping towards my head like kamikaze pilots before their final descent. 

During this bit of drama, they enjoyed emitting an acrid smell. I began wearing goggles to protect my eyes from the harmful squirt and held my breath. These scenes came to a nadir after a full day’s session at the killing fields. Someone sitting behind me on the bus tapped my shoulder. ‘Excuse me, not sure if you’re aware, but there’s a large bug on your head.’

 I froze. To swat or not to swat. I hoped to scare away the pest by imitating a helicopter, arms flailing in the air. The stink beetle took flight after releasing its putrid stench. Red-faced with embarrassment, I jumped off the bus before my destination, hoping to preserve my dignity by pretending to answer a phone call.  I had no time to warn others about the creature before leaping off the bus and left them to deal with the Halyomorphahalys. 

 In the film ‘The Outlaw Josey Wales’, Clint Eastwood chews tobacco and spits on all manner of things, including a dog and a beetle, when he’s mad and seeking revenge. I considered this tactic for a while, but although I despised the bugs, I didn’t need to embrace a new vice to prove my gardening skills.

After a few fun hours of hanging out at the Casino bar with my friend, flirting with a couple of well dressed punters, one handed my friend a $20 note and said, ‘go see what you can do with this note.’ We sauntered off with the $20 note clasped firmly between her thumb and forefinger and headed for the ladies’ powder room on the way. We were giggly after a few champagnes had wet our lips.  My friend went into her cubicle and I into mine. Came out, washed hands, freshened up in the mirror, and headed into the foyer of the casino. 

 I walked ahead of my friend and as we moved into the tables and between the machines, wondered why patrons were amused and checking us out.  

I turned around to ask my friend, ‘Where is the $20?’.  She looked bewildered and checked her hand, pockets and bag. That’s when I saw it!  

A whole roll of toilet paper trailing behind her, caught under the hem of her heavy leather skirt, unrolling as she walked.  The $20 had been used to wipe and then flushed down the toilet.  Somehow the toilet roll had hooked under her heavy ankle length skirt as she adjusted it.  I couldn’t believe it.  It was so funny to see, although my friend was extremely embarrassed I still laugh about it to this day.  

Elmo our dog, is one of the smartest dogs in the whole wide world and knows that Picko  loves dogs more than people. 

On this particular morning, when I was rushing around, packing my teaching things for the day when Elmo had other plans. Why should he stay home alone when he had a place better to be? A place where he could be loved and play all day with other dogs. So quick as a puppy wink ,Elmo was off down the road without a care in the world. 

I searched high and low for the little sneak but alas he was nowhere to be seen. Unbeknown to me Elmo had darted across the road, past the church with the steeple and cruised on down to Little Park. There he had a sniff and pee and continued along the promenade down to Beverley Whitfield ocean pool. There the Shellharbour Dolphins were doing what they always do, swimming laps.

 Elmo sauntered past with a swish of his tail, a dog on a mission. Steve, called out from the pool, ‘Elmo where are you going? Come here!’ Elmo high tailed it out of there and detoured into the caravan park for a few pats before he cut through to the path along South Beach. 

Meanwhile, I was frantically searching for the little fiend with no luck. Elmo trotted along past the houses on South Beach and stopped at the last house. He made his way to the front gate and waited. He knew that sooner or later the garage door would open. Bingo! Craig had opened the door and driven away. The door remained open. 

Elmo silently made his way into the garage and upstairs to inside the house. He sneakily made his way to the bedrooms. Not just any bedroom, but one in particular. The door was open and the very person he wanted to see was sleeping peacefully. With a jump, he made his way to under a soft arm and curled up for a nice snuggly sleep. 

Brrrrrring! Brrrring! ‘Hey Picko, have you seen Elmo? I have to go to work and I can’t find him anywhere,’ I asked. ‘No Karen, he’s not here,’ said Picko as she silently patted a soft furry body. Her eyes opened and widened in total surprise, ‘I thought I was patting Dolly, but Elmo’s here in bed with me.’

Aaron Priestly, handsome and charismatic was twenty-two years younger than his sixty-year-old wife Evie. 

When Evie was diagnosed with a terminal illness, she decided to search for darling Aaron’s next wife. 

No one knew what Aaron thought. He smiled his dimpled smile and patted Evie’s hand. Having originally found him on a cruise,

 Evie booked on Seabourn again to find her replacement. But none of the single women they’d invited to dinner was good enough for her beloved.  ‘Particularly Svetlana,’ Evie later told her young masseuse, Laura. ‘…a Russian-American tart! Imagine a fifty-something blond wearing a spangled mini-skirt!’ 

Each evening after dinner, they would retire to their stateroom, Evie continued, and Aaron administered her painkillers. ‘Sometimes as early at eight-thirty’, she sighed. ‘He sat by my bed as I fell asleep, the darling.’   Sometimes Aaron patted her hand as she drifted off and told her he was going to take a final stroll around the deck.  

‘Anyway,’ Evie smiled. ‘You’ve been so wonderful, Laura. I’ve remembered you in my will.’ She waved away Laura’s remonstrances.  

 When the end came Aaron sent everyone a text. Evie would not have approved, Laura thought. A tearful phone call would have been Evie’s style. Aaron bore his grief with dignity. He honoured his ‘cherished wife’ with a touching, if short, eulogy and a sumptuous post funeral lunch. 

 Several days later, Laura was summoned to Evie’s solicitor’s office, Evie’s two daughters and their husbands waited expectantly. Aaron stood apart, dressed in black shirt, leather jacket, black pants. Pushing back his thick brown hair, he glanced round the room with his unfathomable dark eyes.  

Evie left him the lot: cash, houses, jewellery. The daughters gasped, frozen in their seats. The solicitor continued: ‘Aaron will inherit my estate on the proviso that he marries my masseuse, Laura, after my death. I bequeath her to him.’ ‘Oh my God!’ Evie’s oldest daughter shrieked. ‘You can’t bequeath another human being. She’s not a slave! We’re taking this to THE HIGH COURT!’  

‘I didn’t know…’ Laura stammered. ‘Like hell you didn’t!’ spat the daughter. Silently, Aaron held out his hand to Laura, and she got to her feet. After they’d left, the roar of Aaron’s Lamborghini rose up from road to office. The noise rattled the windows. 

‘I believe, Mr Priestly, like Elvis, has left the building,’ the solicitor commented dryly.

‘They are thinking of renting a loft room in a barn, on some acreage, on a winery?’  

It was one of those stupendous moments of joy. And would I drive out there to meet the family? 

The ‘loft’ turned out to be the whole upper floor of the barn building, above the storage of traditional wooden wine barrels. It was a dream – with six dormer windows, three each side, overlooking vineyard on one side and front gardens on the other. 

My life had arrived. The main house was a short distance away. That’s where I’d need to go for bathroom and kitchen. Inside the house everyone sat around a large wood table. I remember the warm yellow glow of the evening. 

Two children were doing homework, a couple of older boys around my age. And I think 3-4 older adults – an uncle, aunt, maybe a grandparent, and the noble lady. 

 Atop the table was a communal wine vessel, shaped like a small half-barrel with a large handle.  The adults passed the barrel around, taking turns at sips between chatter, homework and books.  

I was excited, euphoric. We enjoyed a light supper of pasta and the communal cup kept up the rounds. I was in love.  

The children were sent off to bed.  Someone pulled out a joint. I was surprised, but not wholly inexperienced. It seemed a token of acceptance.  Within a half-hour the room started to spin and I started to feel the upwelling of red wine and pasta.  

My higher brain rationalised my situation. Once inside their bathroom, my now panicked brain said I could nip outside via the window, quickly evacuate my stomach contents, climb back in, tidy up, return to my hosts, grab my bag, excuse myself, head home. It was a good plan. 

Unfortunately my wriggling leg kicked over a large pottery planter on the way out the window. The noise was earth-shattering.  I was out the window and on the ground, staggering about 20 metres across the garden to rid my body of its pressing business. 

The smash alarmed the adults inside. The ‘are you alright’ calls to the toilet went unanswered. Because I wasn’t there. Minutes passed. Adults swarmed out the house, looking for me.  Who the hell climbs out of a toilet window my brained screamed, demanding answers.  They found me, and were kind. 

I didn’t get the rental.

When I was sixteen, I got a Christmas holiday job in a small auto parts factory in Condell Park. I started work at 7am, had thirty minutes for lunch, and knocked off at 3pm. For six weeks I sat in front of a moulding machine and on my right was a box of spark plug attachments destined for Austin 1800s. My job was to lift a protective cage on the machine, take two spark plug connections and place them into slots, close the cage, press the green button, press the red button on the sound of a bell, lift the cage, remove the now moulded ends, put them in the box on my left and repeat the process. I have been a strong advocate of automation ever since. Apart from the boss the only other person who spoke English was a young man of about twenty called Gary who seemed to choose clothes based upon some kind of tightness index. His shirt sleeves struggled to fit around his biceps, especially the right one which perpetually held a packet of Rothman cigarettes. His short hair was tight too - held in place permanently with an enormous amount of Brylcreem. In his top pocket he kept his lighter and his comb. I think Gary knew the boss or had something on him because the only job he had was to lean against the roller door in the docking bay combing his hair and having the occasional smoke. One Friday afternoon Gary offered me a lift to the station. The Holden motor company had just released the Kingswood range the year before and Gary had managed to get his hands on a sky-blue Belmont model which was really just manufactured for people like him who one daydreamed of robbing the local Commonwealth Bank. They should have just called the car the Lennie McPherson.

Back in England a few years ago, someone tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’. A familiar face beamed at me. I recognised her instantly - she’d been at my school. After kissing me on the cheek, she indicated The Kings Arms. ‘I’m meeting my husband here for a drink. How about you keep me company while I wait, I do so hate going into a pub on my own!’ It was just starting to rain, so the cosy pub seemed very inviting. She insisted on buying me a drink. I studied her as she walked up to the bar. I remembered her from the school play. She’d played Malvolio in Twelfth Night. She was hilarious. The only problem was, I couldn’t for the life of me remember her name. Was it Geraldine or Gillian, or maybe Grace? She returned and set the drinks on the table. A crackling fire was burning in the grate. ‘So, what are you doing in Oxford?’, she asked. ‘My husband and I have been here for the past two years, but we’re returning to Sydney soon.’ ‘Sydney? Goodness’. ‘And you? I suppose you’re here for The Oxford Playhouse’s production?’ ‘No, no time, I’m here for a physiotherapy conference, with my husband. He should be here any minute’. When he arrived, he hurried to join her. ‘I see you’ve already made a friend’, he said giving her a quick kiss. ‘Darling, this is Amanda. We were at school together’, my friend announced. Amanda! I obviously wasn’t the only one with a bad memory! ‘It’s Vivien actually’, I corrected. She looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry, yes, er … Vivien’. I was still no closer to discovering her name … Gina? No … Judith?Then, in a flash, it came to me … Gwendoline! ‘Gwendoline’, I exclaimed, feeling pleased with myself. ‘I remember your Malvolio. You were hilarious … all that cross gartered stuff!’ My friend looked at me. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about … Malvolio?’ ‘You were in Twelfth Night at school at St Cuthbert’s!’ ‘St. Cuthbert’s? I was at St. Margaret’s and my name’s Susan and you were in my hockey team!’ ‘Me? Hockey? No way – I’ve never touched a hockey stick in my life!’ I stared at her and she stared back. Then, as realisation dawned, we both burst out laughing.

t had been a heady few weeks since arriving in North America on an exchange program. Richard had announced to workmates that he was leaving for twelve months … swapping jobs, houses, and cars. One wag piped up, ‘Are you swapping wives as well!’ Agnes was not impressed as she had just taken up a new work contract herself and thought the comment sexist in the extreme. During the exhaustive negotiations that followed, it was decided that an exchange of clothing would be appropriate, considering the extreme climatic contrasts between the countries involved. The use of snowshoes for surfboards, heavy gauged jackets for light windcheaters, wellies or thongs and Sherpa packs for day packs etc…etc. A fun time was had wading through the mounds of sports equipment and clothing left in the under floor heated double garage. The amazing thing was how close in size were the items left. Medium to large boots, shoes and jackets for Richard and small to small/medium for Agnes. Only one feature made Richard uneasy about the whole process; all his clothing comprised of extreme colours and predominately the colour pink was in evidence. Meanwhile Agnes had wonderful shades of green, brown and grey! Agnes berated Richard saying, ‘Well aren’t you the delicate flower … manhood threated by a colour!’ The days went by in a glow that only overseas experience can provide. New roads to travel, new places to see and countryside to explore. Each day they would regale their experiences to the wonder of the locals and new made friends. In hindsight there were frequent side glances at our ‘borrowed’ clothing with one acquaintance asking, ‘Did you bring your winter gear from home?’ Richard said, ‘Yes, our exchange home!’ This was followed by collective mirth. All too soon the happy couple were winging their way home to be met at the airport by their son James. A joyful interaction followed as Richard and Agnes described their experiences living figuratively and actually in someone else’s shoes! Outlining the unusual clothing colour scheme that their exchanges adopted, James butted in and said, ‘You do realise dad that Ava was your height and Noah was much smaller!’ Many hours followed as each in their turn, Richard and Agnes were mortified by memories of cross dressing in a small, conservative and God-fearing American town.Are your customers raving about you on social media? Share their great stories to help turn potential customers into loyal ones.

   Feeling a little seedy after a previous night’s dinner party, I was meeting a friend for lunch. She asked if I would mind if she brought a friend along. Being the easy-going type that I am I agreed wholeheartedly. I was introduced to this rather tired-looking friend and the lunch began in a friendly manner, with me chatting away in my inimitable style. As the lunch progressed, this friend kept looking at me strangely and becoming a little less friendly. Finally, I had to ask her what was the matter? She curtly enquired, ‘were you at a party at Kirribilli last night?’ Surprised, I said I was but asked, ‘how did you know? I didn’t see you there!’ To my eternal embarrassment she said, ‘I live in the unit next door, and I had to listen to your voice through the wall until 3 am!!’

Gosh I need a wee I thought as I entered the café where I was going to meet my pal. After a cursory look round to confirm that she wasn’t already in the café, into the loo I traipsed. Phew that’s better, nothing quite as relieving as relieving oneself. I searched for a table, I sat facing the door so I could attract her attention easily when she arrives. I told the lovely lass who came to me that I was waiting for a friend and will order when she gets here. Five minutes, 10 minutes; not like her to be late, hope all ok. 15 minutes; 20 minutes; I’m getting a tad worried now, where on earth is she! I decided enough was enough and called her mobile. Tring tring, ‘Hello’, I said. ‘Hello’, she said. ‘Are you ok?’ I asked. ‘Yes, fine thanks, are you?’ ‘Yes, I’m worried about you, where are you?’ ‘I’m in the café’. ‘Oh gosh, I must be in the wrong cafe’, I said feeling slightly bemused. ‘Where did we arrange to meet?’ I asked. ‘At Hudson’s’ she replied. ‘I thought so, that is where I am. Oh, are you in the conservatory?’ ‘No, I’m in the front’, she said. ‘Well, that is where I am’. ‘Where abouts are you sitting?’ she asked. ‘Middle table’. Then with a flash that was far from my normal alertness, I turned round and there, sitting behind me, was my lovely pal. I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned, and we both spluttered with laughter. How on earth could we have missed each other? The question does not have an answer and never will. We ordered our coffee and cake; I had a more than delicious fresh cream Victoria sponge and my pal had a more than delicious looking carrot cake. We laughed all the way through our meet up as to how idiotic what had just happened, still laughing to this very day. As we were walking back to our respective cars, my pal stopped in the middle of the road, turned her bum to me and asked, ‘Is my bum wet?’ Well, I will leave it up to you to decide which one of us is flakey and which one of us is not.

From since he could remember, he had diagnosed his own problems from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). First was ‘existential syndrome:’ which made him wonder in his early life: ‘why me? Why now? Then came the ‘Truman syndrome’, where like in the movie, ‘The Truman Show’ he believed his life was so important that he was being watched, as if on television. ‘Somatic syndrome’, after this, was characterised by clinically significant medical complaints - not aided of course by his ‘Ekborn’s syndrome’ (the belief that one’s skin is crawling with bugs, worms and other parasites). This then morphed into ‘Munchausen’s syndrome’ where he feigned illness to attract attention. But after this didn’t work, he was convinced he had ‘Imposter’s, then ‘Aspberger’s syndrome’, which explained his difficulties in discussing this. However, after consulting yet another psychiatrist, he was told he had developed ‘syndrome syndrome’ – no further explanation neededs.

A couple of men are sitting at the kitchen table, the senior one reading a newspaper. He says, ‘Son, that girl Patty or Cathy, whatever her name is, from round the corner is always coming here. Why is she here so often? Do you ask her over or does she bring her racquet over for a game?’ There is a low mumble. ‘Don’t mumble, son. Speak up! I can’t hear you when you mumble.’ There is a loud crash of plates from the sink in the corner. Dad raises his voice, ‘Another cup of tea, Luv.’ An audible sigh follows. ‘And more toast…’ There is a groan. ‘Your Ma says she’s asked to see her engagement ring; always a bad sign if you ask me…I gather you two have hit it off but I hope you haven’t told her you love her.’ More mumbling. ‘Speak up.’ ‘Well, she’s always telling me she loves me…’ ‘Have you two been looking in jewellery shops lately?’ ‘Well …she likes pretty things …’ ‘Humm… I see. Has she set her heart on a particular ring? Have you mentioned marriage? Cos that’s a double fault.’ ‘N …no Dad.’ ‘But has she?’ ‘Um, well …yes.’ ‘Now let’s get this straight. Do you love her?’ ‘Well I think so, sort of, but …’ ‘Do you want to get married?’ ‘N…no, I’m too young. I’m only twenty- seven.’ ‘That’s right. Plenty of time to think about it. Serve her an ace and tell her you promised your dead granny to wait. Tell her ’30 - love.’ Then he bellows, ‘Where’s my tea?’ A squeaky voice answers, ‘Coming.’ ‘Have you told her you’re not ready for the serious game of matrimony?’ ‘N ..no, Dad.’ ‘Son, you must speak up and tell her or she’ll trap you into it. I can read the signs. You must be absolutely firm, like an official umpire at a tournament. Otherwise you’ll lose game, set and match.’ The lad’s mouth drops, his eyes grow large and he begins to shake. ‘Oh, no, I can’t.’ ‘Well now, son, are you a man or a mouse?’ ‘…Um, I’m not sure …Can you pass me the cheese…’