Morning, Chez Piddens:
Wes! Where are you?
Wes, in the bathroom, puts on a false voice imitating Eric Abetz.
Who? Nobody here called Wes.
Come on! Come on!
Hurry up. Aren’t you ready?
I am but a deodorant’s roll from ready, Allie.
And that’s another thing. I am not having you sweating up the Chesterfield lying on it in your work clothes.
(Wes sniffs armpits) But Allie, I’d feel self-conscious lying on it in the buff.
Please, spare me that image!
Relax. We’re not heading to the High Court for sentencing. We’re off to El Towno for a shop up. Or have you received a dread summons from Sir Barfield Garwick and not told me, you law-flouting minx?
Shut up! Who?
Barfield Garwick. Right wing High Court Grand Wazoo back in the day. Had it in for Whitlam.
Ho hum. Hurry up! You’ve still got to load up the recycling, plus all the clothes for the Op Shop.
We’d better take the Ranger then.
I am not travelling in that motorised travesty. It’s full of tools, filth and animal hair.
Bull! I gave it a good vacuum in January.
Then explain the hellish whiff of offal marinated in diesel. Delreen Pranter crossed a busy road to avoid it the other day.
Oh yeah. Pranters. They bought that 100 acres up past the Greek Block. Someone said she came from Bogantungan and it was three days in the saddle to the letter box so she did all her schooling with the Flying Doctors on the pedal wireless.
So, she was pedalling away on that thing all hours, day and night. Never got past her six times tables or See Dick run, Spot, but she developed calves and thighs like Don Athaldo.
Don Athaldo. Old school Aussie bodybuilder. Anyway, she just missed a medal at the Brisbo Comm Games.
Cycling, of course. Madison, or maybe Keirin.
Madison and Keirin. You know, those wacky events where you race someone on the opposite side of the velodrome like it’s some sort of COVID precaution. I think there’s an Ambrose too…
That’s golf, you goof! Even I know that.
You may be right, Allie.
I am. Who are the Greeks?
The Greeks who own the Greek Block.
(Wes scoffs) They’re not Greeks.
Then why do they call it the Greek Block?
They don’t. They’re Poles. Why would they call it the Greek Block?
Oh, here we go! Who calls it the Greek Block then?
Danny Gaviscon. You must know Danny. Gets around in shorts, Cuban heels and spurs all weathers. No hat, ever.
Is he the man who stops you in the street to talk about Corgis or something?
Why does he call them Greeks?
Their name is Andrysiak.
So, that sounds as good as Greek to Danny.
Why didn’t they set him straight?
Danny’s not the sort of cat you set straight. Ever. You might as well ask the Pope for some slap and tickle. Besides, no-one’s ever seen them.
I’m not surprised. If everyone is looking for Greeks, the Poles would get overlooked. They might be here amongst us, hiding in plain sight.
Why would they be hiding, Allie?
I was being funny.
OK. Keep working on it.
So what’s with the Corgis?
So, Danny is a Royalist. Loves them. He would’ve been Henry VIII’s Number 7 if he was a woman. Gladly. Chopping block or not.
Yep, he’d rather listen to Liz Two retching into a jam tin than Hiromi playing Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique.
Hiromi. She’s a freakin’ piano beast.
Why is she always grinning?
You’d grin too if you could cut loose on the goanna like that.
So, back to Buck House. Danny loves Liz. Calls her The Sidesaddle Saint. Not so keen on the son, because he eats nothing but echinacea and foxes and he did wrong by the kindy teacher. But a king’s a king, so Danny stays staunch.
And the Corgis?
Well, Betty Boop Version ii kept a pack of Corgis.
Danny finds out Corgis are sheep dogs. Working dogs. So he takes a photo of his own cattle dogs and sends it with a letter to Buck House:
Dear Her Majesty. Hope the Corgis are working well. A bit short in the leg if you ask me, but you’d know best. Anyway, since you’re interested in horse and stock work, these are my working dogs, (LtoR) Nip, Tilly and Rooter.
Hope you’re keeping well, Your Majesty.
Some Lady in Waiting wrote back. A lovely letter. Signed with the Queen’s autograph.
Danny keeps it on his person at all times and will whip it out at the slightest encouragement.
He wrote back, but there’s been no reply in twenty years. After Abbott knighted Phil, Danny thought he might be in the running for an OBE at least, but now Betty has checked out he’s got to start all over with the King. I told him to send a dog snap to Eric Abetz, ha ha.
A lesson to us all.