Chez Piddens
Wes busying himself in the kitchen. Allie emerges to decry the stench.
Yuk! Phew! What’s that sad cuisine you’re frying up?
Pineapple, brown sugar, coriander, paprika and chili. Mm-mm.
Mmph. Eeeee. My eyes are watering. Tell me you don’t intend eating that evil substance. Tell me you’re going to paint it on fence posts to deter white ants.
Ha. You and your little jokes.
I’ll joke you. Hand over that spatula and prepare for a bruising.
Is ‘errandry’ a word?
Who cares?
I was going to ask if you were up for a bit of errandry.
Don’t be disgusting.
What? No, I was going to ask if you would run an errand for me. When are you heading to El Towno next?
Monday. The dermatologist.
Dermatologist?
Don’t you ever listen? The lumps. The lumps you told me were probably beard rash but turned out to be a rampant coriander allergy. And here’s you, stewing up the stuff in my very kitchen.
Oops, sorry. Sorry. Here, have a sit out on the veranda and I’ll bring you a lovely cup of tea.
(Allie coughs) Brahh. How much longer are you going to cook that crap? I can’t see for smoke.
The secret to abacaxi na churrasqueira, or BBQ Pineapple Brazilian, is to roast the very bejeezus out of it. Won’t be long now. Ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.
I’ll top you!
Anyhow, if you’ve got any energy left on Monday after fighting off the skin shaman, can you pick me up some more underpants rope please?
Underpants rope? More? I haven’t recovered from buying it the last time.
???
Don’t you remember? I fronted up at Mad Barry’s Two Buck Discount Bargain World and enquired about underpants rope, only to be insulted by an offhand Retail Assistant.
(Alice re-lives her ordeal)
Do you have underpants rope?
What?
Underpants rope.
Nope.
My husband says you do.
That’s his opinion. What is it, anyway?
It’s old underwear unpicked and turned into rope.
Are you feeling all right? We don’t do first aid here.
I’m serious.
Seriously delulu.
What?
Never heard of it.
Wes says it comes in gaudy fluoro-tartan colours.
This ‘Wes’ seems to have a lot to say. Wait. Rope, you said. Fluoro colours…
Yes.
Aha! You’re talking about “Utility Rope”, not underpants rope. Aisle Three. On the left, down low.
(Alice fetches the rope) Right, hold this. (Hands over rope, burrows in her bag and produces a nail file) Now, let’s see (starts picking away at rope with nail file).
Wait. What are you…?
Aha! See? Undy fabric. Calvin Klein. It’s Underpants Rope. Wes was right.
Big whoop for Wes. That’ll be eight bucks.
I’m not paying eight bucks for this. Somebody’s picked it apart with a nail file. I demand a discount.
???
(Alice returns to the present) It was a retail ordeal, Wes.
Well, at least that Boy Raymond shop jockey will know what you’re talking about this time.
What do you want it for?
Roping off.
What?
Roping off. I’m going to rope off the Dulgigin Sphynx. None shall pass.
Is that blockade still going?
Of course it is. The community can’t let that Quandi Selflove minx steal our Sphynx.
I thought she’d gone quiet on it lately. Somebody said she’d moved on to promoting her new line of ‘oyster-based aphrodisiac skin products’.
No, no. That’s just the clam before the shirtstorm, Allie. She’s plotting, believe you me.
Well, I think you should get some bunting. More attention-grabbing.
Underpants rope is stronger, and cheaper.
I like bunting.
This ain’t no carnival. It’s serious business.
I want bunting.
Well, get yourself some bunting, but just know that things are hotting up round here. A thirty-tonne excavator went missing from Yulgilstone Station last night, and I’ve got a stinky-smelling suspicion that somebody is going to try and use it to snaffle the Sphynx.
Oh no!
And who would that somebody be, Allie?
F…F… Frenchy Fargas!!! (faints)
To be continued
A continuing lesson to us all
Bullgoose
If you can handle it, there’s a lot more Bullgoose here.