Kooralbyn Ugly: The Perils of Garage Sales; Markwell Pl. on the morrow.

A few weeks ago, the advert for a Scarvell Place garage sale looked interesting enough to warrant my attendance. Keeping in mind that too many Beaudesert area garage sale advertisers offer much and deliver little except soiled, poxy toys, lesser objets d’art, referred to by the hoi polloi as bric-a-brac and battered bromeliads. If things are quiet and there’s little action, it’s not unusual to engage the male owner in conversation.The downside to these impromptu chats is their inevitable end in dismay when the poo-faced, deep-thinking host condemns the influence of the Labor movement on Australian youth which can only be corrected by, he usually asserts, “a couple of years in the army.”

“Owner moving, everything must go etc…” And it was so in this case, a high-powered motor-mower, a Rover, I think it was, sans scratches and age, with a tag of $60 was taken even as I mulled over why items that I no longer have any use for can be picked up for the cost of a spit. Various stinking, motorized dunce’s toys like hedge trimmers, chippers, mulchers, shredders, edgers, leaf blowers, and other attractants of the chronic brain-dead, were appropriately priced to find new homes near you.

In the two car, part of the house garage, replaced by makeshift tables of fair quality used household goods for the occasion, I carefully scan for elusive treasure. A chirpy, friendly matron addresses me. I couldn’t immediately place her. “Francis.” She reminded me, “You come to our garage sales at Boomerang Drive.” And now I remembered, having attended the last three of their annual event. “Here’s Gordon,” she gleefully announced, indicating her spouse, an old cunt of miserable demeanor. “You’ll remember him.” I did, and as with most of his contemporaries, what he didn’t know, he invented. The need for importance knows no boundary.

“My good war-mate (of course he would be) keeps in touch with the French Secret Whatever,” he confided when he got me in a corner at their last sale, “and there’s been a skyjack on French soil that I’ve got to keep hush-hush about and there’s ground action even as we speak.” “That’s a pity,” I replied, “could have mentioned it on Twitter and created pandemonium.” A year on since this disclosure, I and the rest of the world await public declaration of such a happening.

Francis agreed the bargains were there, asked of my health, that I’m looking well, etc. “With age, the saying, ‘you are what you eat, makes sense,'” I opined, and mentioned how I’d recently taken an interest in the Yuppy herbage, Kale. “Is it doing you any good”? She pretended interest, “Well,” I replied, taken aback by her stupidity, “I’m halfway through my second bunch, and wouldn’t expect any impact yet, would you”?

Well bugger me if I wasn’t in for another surprise,”You can always try Jesus and my church.”

Fuck Ireland! You never know when next these twisted pricks will bob up.



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