Pepper Zen flies south

It's been a big ten days for Pepper Zen.  On 26 January, she took to the air for the first time, but there were a few things to organise before she could board the Qantaslink flight to Cairns.

     First, she needed to be introduced to travelling in a crate.  She was used to sleeping in the crate because each night I take her from the garden and lock her, from the safety of cats, dogs and worse, snakes, in a medium-sized dog crate.  In the past fortnight, I down-graded her into a cat crate in preparation for the big day.  I contacted Wildlife Rescue in Cairns and was advised the smaller space would prevent her flapping her wings if she became distressed on the flight.  And it was important to cover her cage so she would think it was night time and hopefully sleep through the ordeal.

     I was the one most worried about Pepper and the plane.  Plenty of people said poultry are good fliers.

     'Ducks are used to flying,' said Eileen and I could see her logic.  But Pepper is no ordinary duck.

     To prepare her for travelling, Seffy and I took Pepper on daily trips in the car before the big travel date.  We wanted her to be used to the noise of the engine, the motion and being confined in a small, dark space.

Pepper's first car trip

     All animals wishing to travel from the Torres Strait quarantine zone need a permit.  It's a pet passport of sorts.  I believe Pepper is the first duck who has ever travelled to Cairns.  Lots of ducks have travelled from Cairns to TI, but they have all been frozen.

     Once a permit has been applied for, the animals must present to the quarantine office on TI within 2 days of travelling to be formally identified and cleared of any nasty diseases that could spread on the mainland.

Pepper Zen and Gina are at the quarantine office on TI waiting for their permits to be issued.

     The big day.  Pepper and Gina take the ferry to Horn Island then the bus to the airport.  On the bus, Pepper gave a few quacks and heads turned.  

     'It's a duck,' said a voice behind me.

Pepper, Gina and the kids are waiting to board the plane.

     It was a tense couple of hours for me and I shaved off a few finger nails while working through the sudokus in the Qantas magazine.  At one point I am sure I heard a few quacks from the hold.  
     But Pepper and Gina were happy to see us at the Australian Air Express depot in Cairns.  Pepper had a big drink and gobbled the peas I had with me.  Yes, I declared them to the quarantine office and beagle at the airport and got the okay.  Gina did a big wee.  Then we headed to Smithfield.  Bubu had bought Pepper a blue shell pool as a welcome present. 

Pepper and Gina cool off.

Pepper loves the water.  Bubu's dog, Tiberius loves Pepper.  I just wish he'd close his mouth and stop salivating when he looks at her.  A smack for Tiby each time he does so, but don't let Bubu see.

Pepper Zen discovers the pool which she much prefers to a plastic scallop.  She managed to squeeze through the fencing and launch herself into the cool water.

     For some reason, Pepper is more vocal in Cairns than on TI.  And she is more vocal in the morning than during the day.  This is a big problem.  On the second morning at 6.15 am when I am trying to shut Pepper up, a neighbour yelled out, Quiet!  Oh, dear.

     It's not as though I am breaching any local laws.  I rang the Cairns Regional Council prior to flying down to make sure Pepper's presence was legal.  Marian told me I could have six ducks.  I was elated thinking I would source 5 more feathered friends and experience five times the joy my Pepper brings.  Not so.  

     My morning routine is this:  Pepper honks between 5.50 and 5.55 from her cage over which is a dark blanket to simulate endless night.  I jump out of bed and flick on the kettle.  Pepper honks a bit louder.  Desperate to avoid her breaking into a full-blown quack, I take her in one arm and make a cup of tea with my spare hand.  I head to the pool area where she swims and I try and wake up.  I can't let her see me walk off till 7 am because if I so much as go inside to make a coffee or wander off to catch her some grasshoppers, she starts quacking.  I don't want to enrage the neighbours.  Once it's 7.30, I relax.  Most people should be up and about.

     Tony flew down to settle the kids into school and he walks morning and evening.

     'I was 500 metres away,' he said when he returned last night, 'and I could hear that bloody duck quacking.'  I don't like it when he refers to her as 'that bloody duck.'

     If Pepper's morning quacking proves to be a problem for the neighbourhood, we might find ourselves back on the Qantaslink flight to the Torres Strait.  At least I know she can handle flying and I won't be so worried.

Shattered again.

I had a cuppa with Detta the other day and I related the windscreen freight dilemma posted in Shattered.

     ‘I can’t believe it’s so hard to get a windscreen from Ipswich to Cairns,’ I said, concluding my de-briefing.

     ‘Well, how is Sutchy’s driving going?’ asked Detta which I thought was a strange question.

      ‘Sutchy?  Sutchy doesn’t drive.  He’s 15.  You mean TK, yeah, he’s going for his Ps on Monday.’  I thought it bizarre that Detta, of all people, would get the boys mixed up.  She's known them since they were toddlers.

      ‘Cath,’ said Detta, ‘how do you think Sutchy smashed the windscreen?’

     ‘A stone hit it when he was whippersnippering your grass, of course.’

     She laughed.   ‘He backed into the coconut tree.’

     ‘Detta, he doesn’t drive.’  What was she talking about?

     ‘He was driving and backed into the coconut tree,’ she said.  ‘I was upstairs on a lunch break.  There was a crash that rocked the house.  I rushed down and saw it all.’  She gasped.  ‘Oh, I am such a bucket mouth.  Tony didn’t say not to tell you.’

The offending tree, left.  One wonders how two sets of eyes (Sutchy and Tony) could miss it!

Now I know how the dent got there!

     My trust in my husband and second son has been shattered.  And it gets worse. Pam rang not long after Detta left and I had to de-brief.  I told her the real story of the shattered windscreen and she laughed.

     ‘Sutchy was telling me,' she said, 'about backing into the coconut tree and TK and he were laughing.  You’d mentioned a stone so I thought the less I know the better.’

     And I then had to de-brief with Nicola.  I told her about the coconut tree and Pam knowing all along.  She laughed also.  
     ‘Didn’t you know?,' she said in disbelief.  'I thought you did.’

     It transpires that Sutchy and TK had a good old laugh with Henry and Nicola about Sutchy backing into a coconut tree.

     ‘You know the blue trailer out the front,’ said Henry to Sutchy, ‘the one with the tarp.  Stay away from it.’

     Well, I’ve got one thing to say to my husband and two oldest sons.  Youse are a bunch of bastards.  I’ve got access to all your bank accounts and you are paying for deceiving me, big time and that includes you TK for going along with their deceit.  I’ll be following up on getting the window to Cairns and you’ll pay top dollar for air freight if I can manage it.  And you’ll never know I know because you don’t read anything I write.  Bastards. 

My Island Homicide in New York

Shattered

I love living on TI. I love the hot wet heat and the drenching squalls at this time of the year.  And I love the cool dry temperatures and raging south-easterlies in the middle of the year.  I love the laid-back lifestyle.  I love being far from the hustle and bustle of traffic and I don’t mind the delays that are inevitable when I order online from suppliers in the big smoke. It’s a small price to pay for living off the beaten track. 

     Until … Sutchy, under Tony’s tutelage, cut Detta’s grass.  I was at her place shortly after the grass was cut and she said she paid him $50.  I scoffed at the idea of a 15 year old earning so much money for an hour’s work, but she insisted.  When I got home, Tony was a little evasive.

     ‘Are you shitty?’ I asked him.

     ‘No.’ He looked down and I waited and waited.  ‘Sutchy, um, was cutting Detta’s grass and um, a stone hit the back window of your van.’

     ‘And?’

     ‘It smashed.’

     ‘What about a tarp or blanket?  You used to use them.’

     ‘We thought we were safe.’

Hopefully the black plastic will keep some of the water out.  Don't know where the dent came from.

     It was just before Christmas so I was filled with the festive season spirit.  Just as well because I would have grabbed the meat cleaver and hacked into him. 

     Why?  When Tony was operating the Gadin Ninja grass cutting business, Tony and his colleagues smashed quite a few windows of cars including our work vehicles.  Whippersnippers, stones and car windows don’t mix.  When car windows shatter, it’s the responsibility of the shatterer to replace the glass for the shatteree.

     We paid a large fortune to window manufacturers and auto-parts recyclers for the replacement windows and an equal fortune to freight companies.  You see, being fragile, glass needs huge amounts of packaging so what starts as a thin pane of glass often ends up a big as a two-seater sofa.  In terms of freight, this translates to big dollars.  I kept pleading with Tony to take steps to stop windows being smashed and eventually, to shut me up, he started using blankets and tarps.  The Window Preservation Management Plan worked a treat and no, repeat, no windows were thereafter shattered.

     So when Tony told me Sutchy smashed the back windscreen of my very old van, I wanted to scream, ‘How the fuck could it have happened if you’d used the no-fail Window Preservation Management Plan?’  I wasn’t concerned only about the cost of replacing the window.  I was also concerned about the imminent wet season and the squalls that would turn my van into a water tank on wheels.

     ‘Okay, I’ll order a window,’ I said with clenched fists and a sigh.

     Ordering the window was a tedious affair.  I first rang four suppliers of new windscreens.  It wasn’t looking good, but the fourth could order the windscreen at an exorbitant price.  I decided to source a second quote, to get an idea if the first quote was unreasonable. This was my fatal mistake.

     I rang auto-parts recyclers, the equivalent of second-hand clothes shops for car bits.  The fourth wrecker was able to locate a back windscreen for $150, half the first quote.  Things were in my favour.

     The very helpful man, Justin, asked me if I had a Toll account and I proudly answered, Yes and provided the account number.

     This is where things started to turn bad and I must acknowledge how patient Justin has been through this ordeal.  If he sues me claiming damages for nervous shock, I will attempt to settle.

     A week after placing the order, Justin rang to advise the glass had arrived, but he couldn’t send it because my Toll account number was incorrect.

     I found the most recent invoice from Toll and rang head office in Darwin.  Liz advised my account number was correct.

     I rang Justin and he asked me to ring Toll and sort the pick-up, just in case Toll maintained the account number was incorrect.  As if there could be a problem with the account number, I thought.

     So I rang Toll on the number Justin provided.  I was told there was no account in my name or under that number. I advised I had an invoice displaying my account number.

     ‘We are Toll Ipec,’ said the woman. ‘Is your account with Toll Ipec?’

     I looked at the invoice from Toll.  There was some very tiny print under Toll.  I put on my glasses.  The very tiny print read: Toll Marine Logistics.  I told the woman.

     ‘Never heard of them love,’ she said, ‘and we only deal with account holders, but can do a one off credit card payment.’

     At this point I realised the Gods were watching over me.

     ‘Where do you want us to pick up from?’

     I gave her the address on Warrego Highway.  I was on hold for quite a while.

     ‘Sorry, love.  That’s Ipswich.  We have an agent who goes out there, but he won’t take freight from anyone who is not an account holder.’

     Okay, conjoined twins who shared vital organs have been separated. Space craft have visited Mars and taken photographs. Forensic procedures have solved decades-old crime.  Ipswich wasn't the back woods.  My dilemma was no biggie.

     I rang Justin back, related the drama thus far and he said, ‘Ring your Toll company and see if they have an address in Brisbane.  They must.  It’s a major port.  We can get the glass to Brisbane and then you’ll be right.’

     So I rang Toll Marine Logistics in Darwin and asked Liz if Toll had a base in Brisbane.  My heart did a somersault when she answered in the affirmative.

     ‘Thanks, Liz.  I’ll get the freight delivered there so it can go all the way through to TI.’

     ‘Oh, you can’t do that,’ said Liz.  ‘We have only an office in Brisbane.  We don’t accept freight.  You’ll have to get the freight to Cairns.’

    This affair was starting to take a toll on my sanity.

     ‘Liz,’ my voice was getting shakey, ‘how can I get the freight from Brisbane to Cairns?’

     ‘Ring Toll Express on 1300 55 03 60.  They’ll be able to help.’

     I rang Toll Express.  They told me to ring NQX on 131821 because Toll Express would use NQX to deliver and I might as well cut out the middle man.

      So I rang NQX and asked if they freighted from Brisbane to Cairns? Yes, they’d be happy to and what did I have.  I said a windscreen.

     ‘Sorry, we are bulk industrial carriers,’ said the woman.

     ‘We are a business,’ I offered in desperation. ‘It’s a real business.’

     ‘You don’t understand.  We freight big stuff like mining equipment and material.’

     ‘Thank you,’ I said and choked back the tears.

     I rang Justin.

      ‘No worries,’ he said.  ‘I’ll ring our carriers, Followmont and get them to pick it up and get it to Cairns.  Will call you later today.’

      He didn’t call me and he didn’t call me the next day.  I then called him and he said he was on hold to Followmont too long and gave up, but he’d sort it and let me know.

     Justin hadn’t called me after 24 hours so I called him.  Followmont were getting back to him that day.

     ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said.

      He didn’t call and that was last Friday.

     I don’t care anymore.  The glass can stay in Ipswich and I’ll have a mobile water tank because the rain started on Friday. 

Pepper Zen has a doris at Gina Rose

I wonder what Gina Rose is up to.

I'll have a doris.

It's all bum from this angle. I'll try from the other end of the garden.

She's digging something with her nose.

My God, now she's chewing the old pig skull Sutchy found on last week's failed hunt.

That is gross.  I am so glad I am not a dog.

Thank God she's finished with that.

Now what is she doing?  I'll have a doris.

Wanted: House to rent at Holloways Beach

This morning, Uncle Tinus and cousin Bridget dropped in for a cup of coffee and a yarn.  We were talking about Kibby’s thriving icy cup business which he operates with the business acumen he inherited from Tony’s father, Dato Henry.  Until his death in September, 1997, Dato sold icy cups, red raspberry and brown sarsparella.

     People came far and wide to buy Dato Henry’s icy cups from this house because they were the best icy cups on the island, not too watery, not too sweet.  Dato Henry had a special formula to guarantee the unique taste for which he was famous.  Before his death, he confided the secret formula to Tony and Tony has disclosed this to Kibby who, of all the children, has showed the most interest in becoming a small business entrepreneur.

     Now people come far and wide to buy Kibby’s icy cups.  It is a thriving business for an eight year-old  He is selling the traditional red and brown varieties, but he has also added green and orange.  While not as popular as red and brown, Kibby wants customers to have choice.  In fact, red outsells brown.

Kibby needs to make up red and orange icy cups.

     From early morning until late at night, the customers come at a slow and steady rate.  We hear the gentle pad-pad-pad on the stairs and the rattle of the veranda gate.

     ‘Two red, one orange and one brown, please,’ says a little voice and a little hand holds out some loose change.

     If Kibby is out with his dad, it’s up to those left at home to service the demand.  Even the crew downstairs help out if all the Titaseys are out.

     Here’s the sad part.  At the end of January, the kids and I are going to live for a while with my mum, Bubu who has not been well.  She lives in Smithfield, Cairns in a quiet suburban street.  I’ll miss the faces that appear, here and there through the day, asking, ‘four brown and two red and one green.’

     ‘Are you going to sell icy cups from Bubu’s house?’ asked Uncle Tinus, sipping his coffee.

     ‘Nah,’ said Kibby, ‘no one’ll buy them.’

     ‘It’s not the sort of thing people buy down there,’ said Tony.

     ‘You could give it a go,’ I said not wanting to discourage Kibby, but I was thinking, there was no way people in suburbia would rock up at someone’s front door and say, ‘one red and one brown.’

     ‘White people don’t buy icy cups,’ said Sutchy butchering a loaf of home-made bread.

     ‘We matha go live in Holloways Beach,’ said Kibby, who has spent much time at Holloways with his  sister, Ashlea who lived there until recently. 

     ‘How come?’ we all asked at the same time. 

     ‘Black people live there,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Why it's better to buy locally

In our house, 2005 was the year of Bionicles, Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince (purchased like all the other Harry Potter books and unread) and A Series of Unfortunate Events (purchased, started and TK and Sutchy lost interest).  It was also a year of Beyblade Tazo Topz and a character named Koya Yamareto, the namesake of our youngest child whose first name is actually Koya Kibbim.  

     For me, 2005 was the year I discovered online stationery shopping at Office Works and I remember the joy of ordering 100 Bic ballpoint pens, a small distraction from the violent nausea I experienced in late pregnancy.  Buying pens online was far more cost-effective than paying 60 cents for each Kilometrico pen from Col Jones Newsagency.
     This is how 2005 became the year of spit balls. 
     I remember this because my sons took most of my Bic pens for critical spit ball parts, no doubt supplying their friends.  You see to make an effective spit ball weapon you need two things.  Firstly, a disembowelled ball point pen and Bic pens are the premium choice for young spit ball manufacturers. Remember to saw off the smaller end with a steak knife.  Secondly, small pieces of paper that are then chewed to a pulp and inserted in one end of the hollowed pen.  When the user blows, with great force through the other end, the spit ball is propelled at high speed.  This provides hours of entertainment for young boys which is good for a busy mum with a newborn and two year old to care for.

     Since we had two sons, then aged 9 and 7, we had double the spit balls flying around.  The boys discovered the more viscous the spit ball was, the longer it could remain attached to a wall.  Of course, they were required to remove the offending material.  
     I was hit by a few spit balls (they hurt) so dispensed the appropriate discipline.  The boys then turned their attentions to their younger sister.  A couple of good hard slaps solved that problem with a terse warning not to go near baby Kibbim.  
     The boys pursued their interest in spit ball warfare and TK even got a detention from firing spit balls at school.  Eventually, the boys lost interest in spit balls and took up kebab stick archery after the wet season arrived and with it, lots of plump tadpoles in gutters and storm water drains.

     However, towards the end of the spit ball epoch, our fax machine stopped working.  I knew the problem wasn’t terminal because the buttons worked, the screen was displayed and faxes could be received.  The only problem was sending faxes; the machine refused to accept the paper.  And what’s more, it was a fairly new machine so there shouldn’t have been any problems.

     I rang Roger (I think that was his name) from Typewriter and Office Supplies in Cairns.  He was a very helpful young man.  We agreed that I’d send the machine down and he’d have a look and if it was fixable, provide a quote.

     A fortnight later, a perplexed Roger rang.

     ‘I’ve found the problem and it was easy to fix,’ he said, but it’s hard to explain.’

     ‘Have a go,’ I said.

     ‘Okay, the machine was fine except the rollers weren’t working when you sent a fax because there was some stuff in there.’

     ‘What was it?’  I was thinking perhaps a dead gecko or cockroach. 

     ‘Um, it was almost like, and this is really weird, taking a small bit of paper and chewing it and then making it into a ball.  It’s gross I know, but do you know what I mean?’

     I looked to the ceiling above my desk in the office.  It was covered with small white lumps.  Spit balls. The fax was positioned right next to my desk.  Some of the spit balls had fallen from the ceiling into the intake part of the fax. 

     ‘T’KIDO!  SUTCHY!’ I screamed.

     ‘Would you like me to debit your visa card?’ said Roger.

     ‘Oh, yes, of course.’  And I quietly choked at the price.  

     It would have been much cheaper to buy 100 Kilometrico pens from Col Jones Newsagency because Kilometrico pens can’t be disembowelled.

     Some of the spit balls are still on the ceiling, eight years later.