Caravanning with Wep – Jindabyne 1938; Quavering Made Them Crotchety
Posted on February 19, 2010 by Pidgeoncoop
Quavering Made Them Crotchety
By L. W. LOWER
Pity you weren’t at the dance last night.
All the girls in this town have been mooning around with cast-iron hair-wavers all over them for days and days.
The policeman who put me out told me that he was a great lover of music, but there were a lot of narrow-minded people in the town who had no ear for music.
One of our main storekeepers has been fined 28 shillings for fishing for trout out of season.
He didn’t catch any trout, either.
Ain’t he lucky?
If at any time the Government thinks of dredging the river up around these parts, they may come across a safety razor.
That will be mine.
Cows, But No Milkmen
I have now the perfect excuse for not shaving.
When I think of the hot towels, bay rum, and cold cream and talcum powder shaves I had before I went bush, I blush.
That dance I mentioned was in aid of the Bush Nurses’ Association.
What I need mostly now is a bush nurse.
Almost any kind of nurse will do, but I think a bush nurse would be more appropriate.
Little did I know when I left town that I would wake one morning frozen to death and entirely surrounded by munching cows.
“Will you go for the milk?”
“Certainly. Where do I go?”
“See that hill over there, well you keep that on your right shoulder till you come to a creek. You go across there and take to the left track past the bull paddock.”
“Pardon, but do you really think we need any milk? They tell me that the stuff is full of tubercular germs and things. I think we’d be safer without milk.”
Not Much Remains …
There will come a day, I suppose when I’ll just have to go for the milk.
When black-trackers find my remains, people will say, “Poor Lennie. Cut off in the bloom of youth. A winsome lad. How we all loved him.”
Make my wreath of Iceland poppies, freesias, and snowdrops.
Wep is lying on his back, covered with blankets and inertia.
He has gathered sufficient strength to tell me to make the fire and put the chops on.
I wish I had a shilling.
Any of you lads who contemplate having a hot rum about now, please think of me, and breathe in a southerly direction.