It seems I got a little bit off track with the blog posting schedule…

There was the Noosa Show Day Holiday, and flying foxes to be flown on.

Fun must have been had with filth like this

There was a full day of work and hands to be worked.

These are working hands…

There was a ballot paper to be filled out, and we all know how long that took.

There were embers to be stared at.

Embers from The Ashers

There was this beach to be sat on.  Not one cloud.

Noosa Main Beach… You can see my blokes in the distance.

There was this book to be read (I know, I know, it’s been out forever, but I saved it for an emergency, like a Sunday night when Nathan is watching some shit show on SBS about Easter Island, and everyone on Twitter is watching The Bachelor. Yes, I know Tim is hot, but I.Just.Can’t.)

So glad I saved you

Rest assured, I’ll be back on the keys again this week, with the new posting schedule. The evening thing isn’t really working for y’all is what I’m hearing, so I’ll post every weekday morning at 6am if I can figure out the autopost thingy.  I intend to post weekdays, and on Saturdays I’ll be sharing Hitwave Alison: my Top 5 from the week.

I hope you all had a fun weekend too. See you tomorrow.

Did you have fun voting below the line?  Do you know even one policy of the Pirate Party?

Do you think Tim is hot?

Mmmmmm

I just ate six slices of Fruit Toast. With lashing, lashing, lashings of melted salty butter.  So good.

Fruit toast reminds me of Sundays.

I remember when I used to sleep over at Lissy’s on a Saturday night, we would have a whole Winter Saturday at Willi Lacrosse Club.  We’d watch little bits of games I suppose, but the day was really about exploring.  It felt like we were allowed to do whatever we wanted.  Climb the trees lining the Ferron (they’re probably fenced off now), go and tease the wogs playing bocce (they’re called Italians now), do a death-run past the top of the cobbled naughty-boys lane (it has million dollar houses flanking it now)… We had lollies and chips, and red-lemonade and Four ‘n’ Twenty pies for dinner.  Some weird kid would always get mussels in a jar from the Fish and Chip shop.

Once it got dark and the lacrosse was over, the parents would move into the warmth of the clubrooms that smelt of liniment and fusty beer.  It would be noisy and happy and a couple of blokes would start singing “I am the music ma-an, I come from down your way,”  and we would go outside to play in the crisp night.  Some Dad would turn on the lights to the box-lacrosse court, and we would play British Bulldogs until someone would break a bone, or almost break a bone, and we would get called back inside.

I was always allowed to sleep over at Lissy’s.

We would wake up to the sound of the guns going off at the Rifle Range, (there’s a whole housing estate there now), and we would imagine the shots were firing out the beat of the opening bars of Blue Monday.  Our parents didn’t know who New Order were, so we knew we were cool.

We would laze in bed, and Lissy’s parents would bring us fruit toast.  Not the thick slabs, like dry sponges, that shops seem to favour nowadays, but lovely thin slices of Tip Top Raisin Bread, lightly toasted, with Western Star on top.  The butter would go on like cheese, then melt to a delicious golden liquid. Our chins would be slick with it.  We would keep calling for more toast, more toast, until Lissy’s brother would come in and tell us we’d get fat if we didn’t stop, and we’d giggle underneath our quilts because we’d knew never get fat.

We would lie on our backs and Lissy would make up songs.  She would write new ones, or invent better verses for songs we already knew; Kids In America, or Don’t You Want Me? or The Power of Love, but with surfing lyrics.  We didn’t surf yet, but we thought we might soon, so it was important to have the songs ready.  Lissy always had a plan, an idea, something fresh to think about.  And I would lie there and listen, or fall back asleep, or read Sweet Valley High books.

I suppose we eventually got up out of bed, but nobody ever made us.  We didn’t have to go anywhere, be anywhere.  It was Sunday.  And Sundays were warm, toasty.

Do you have a food memory?

Do Rifle Ranges still exist?

I grew up in Melbourne.  It’s a fairly religious town.  We start talking about it every Friday, and on Monday we debrief.  The religion is The Footy.

There has been a lot about the footy in the media this last few weeks, with Essendon being dragged over the coals over allegations of drug usage, and with some of the club’s favourite sons being drawn into the fray.  I can’t help but wonder which other clubs may be involved. I just hope it isn’t mine (although their recent results would suggest they are in the clear).

This weekend, it was time for some pastoral care Asher style: Nathan took his son to the footy.

We forgot all about the recent furore, and were transported back to a simpler time.

A time where you wore your team’s colours and your heart on the outside, proudly displayed.

A time where you felt pride in your team’s success and you yelled disparaging comments at the opposition.  Where you ate a meat pie that defied occupational health and safety regulations, and burnt your arm when you inevitably spilt some of the meat.

A time when the purest joy was screaming out “Go Dogs” at the top of your little lungs at every opportunity, and you high-fived your Dad after every great passage of play.  Where you felt like a grown-up because, for those couple of hours, you were an equal to your Dad.  Brothers in arms, united against a common enemy.  Where you probably wouldn’t even get in trouble if you accidentally let out a medium swear.

A lot of things have changed in football over the years, but these things have not.

Nor has this little tune lost it’s ability to stir my heart.

Up There Cazaly

I miss you sometimes, Melbourne Town.

Go Dogs.

Do you love your Footy?

Do you sometimes let out a medium swear?

I’ve been meaning to get organised and get a brazier for years, and yesterday I decided to get onto it. We had to go to three shops, because they have already cleared them out to make way for the palm-tree motif cane lounges and neon pink beach umbrellas (I did mention it is Queensland, right?), but my tenacity, and Nathan’s patience paid off, with a Big W jackpot.

A fire-pit, no less.  We could be on Renovation Rescue, or whatever that shit was.

We stoked up the fire, found appropriate sticks, ripped open the marshmallows, chucked the kids some sushi for tea, and settled in for an evening of staring at the embers.

Faces hot, backs cold.

Icy cold beers from the bar-fridge slaking our parched throats.  (After all, we were being all outdoorsy.)

We live near the beach, and I guess it is still the ‘burbs, but sitting by our fire, we could’ve been anywhere.  But the fire held us right here.  In the present.

We watched the Evening Star come out, and made silent wishes.

A bat flew by, in that creepy, almost silent, way they have.  Just a soft rustle of those strange fleshy-sounding wings.

A possum made it’s way across the power lines to forage on the other side of the street (and then shit itself and nearly fell off when I tried to take a pic for my Instagram).

And we sat and we stared and we talked and we watched the fire go down, until all there was, was the ashes. And the Ashers.

Just me and him.  Him and me.  Just how it’s meant to be.

Do you have a fire-pit?

What was your Saturday night like?