29th November 2017.
Weed scuffler
“I’ll start at point eight, drop to point six.” Mower speak.
Beard and barnet close-clipped, smart as a Brighton hedge, Garry the Gardener currently holds the bragging rights. Introduced to me by a friend, a Russian lass, he’s out the front. A MCG member and one who, before happy senescence, played in the Victoria Districts, Garry loves his cricket. On hands and knees he’ll scuffle under foliage for a weed as if it’s red leather lost under the covers. And jolly good luck to him. For his is the kingdom of iffy spiders, buzzing biters and million-legged horrors.
Today, after an early doors fag and having switched sandy thongs for dusty trainers he grabbed his secateurs. Offensively. Sad rose heads targeted like a Mitchell Starc attack on Joe Root’s noggin.
Here in the back yard I flump with a mug of almond milk coffee kept hot by the air around. England’s 10-wicket ‘Gabbatoir’ defeat in the first Ashes skirmish niggling. Above, a red wattlebird is busy, bough hopping, hanging this way and that, nectar-sipping from jacaranda thimbles. Below, on the patio bricks, sun-wilts the profuse fall of purple, each individual a little incident of the bird’s attentions.
I suppose though any ‘little incident’ has degrees of outcome. A burning example from the past fortnight? Twiglet Aussie Nathan Lyon’s spinning fingers raging havoc. Through peckishness and a toaster a Brisbane grandstand evacuated. The whole caboodle. Press, scorers and players. The fire brigade scrambled. Cricket suspended. Mr Lyon did say sorry. “(The toast) popped up first and I wasn’t happy so I put it back down and I got carried away watching the cricket,” he explained.
Frummm-frummm. The yank of a starter chord. Putt-putt. Chord again. Noisy roar. Smoke and dust. The point eight, no doubt.
Okay, I shall be fair and absolutely not get distracted. Poms too can fall prey to a little incident. Like last Friday’s involving my widgy Fiat 500. A staggeringly high, hard, metal- grinding supermarket kerb saw me clambering frazzled into a cab whose radio had Australia at 76-4 first knock. Cabbie Paul, a curmudgeonly Londoner who got lost years before me, took the scenic route to avoid blue lights, seriously crumpled cars and an ensuing tail-back on the Melbourne arterial highway. The journey gave opportunity for a random witter.
I chuntered about a bad for budget big hole-in-pocket insurance excess. He whinged about not liking hot Oz sun nor its cancer risks. Had a signed photo of a young Indian batting talent – feted as the next Tendulkar – killed stone dead by a bouncer, “stashed away somewhere” in his box room. And having tagged along with several cricket tours including South Africa v West Indies he saw himself a pretty fine judge of a cricket match. “England’ll probably win,” his last words to me as I disembarked.
Course Paul wasn’t aware of the ‘butt’.
So straight on to the upshot: wicky-batter Jonny Bairstow snaffled at third man. Rattled concentration cum brain-melt brought on by an Aussie gob harking back to a surprisingly highbrow meeting.
Mr Bairstow’s matey rugger club style “‘Ello” to newbie Aussie opener Mr Bancroft in a Perth pub a few weeks ago was savoured and stored. “You shouldn’t head-butt our mates,” growled Bancroft’s pugnacious vice-skip David Warner, his timing immaculate. The moment pivotal to day four’s play. Just a quiet sledge, of course. Meant for Mr Bairstow’s lugholes alone. But oops, overheard by the stump microphone. Nez Meadows, she of a popular radio station, earwigged and mischievously broke the story. Fall out gushy as Bali’s Mount Agung. Prattle of handcuffs and gallows.
Little incidents can get under the skin, metal or otherwise.
“I’m off,” said Garry. I wallet-fumble. “Adelaide Saturday,” he adds. “Second Test’s day-night. Pink ball. I’ve played with a pink ball. Hard. Goes sideways. Heat-seeks helmet badges. You know, the ones with three lions.”
“A flaming dandy Lyon’s to boot.” Too cryptic a riposte, perhaps.
Clackerty-clackety, the lawn mower is audible being trundled back up the pavement. How quickly time passes keypad tapping. It dawns that for a lovely job done Garry has given me an hours-to-dollars discount. I text a query. “All good,” Garry replies. Joyful lesson learned. Little incidents can also lead to a little kindness. Even to a pom.
Ting. Another text. Garry. “See it as a favour to our mutual friend.” Ah.
I feel like some more breakfast. Call it brunch. Perhaps a nibble of toast and Roses English marmalade. Point eight it’ll hit the spot. A jacaranda flower to a wattlebird for want of a better comparison.
Illustrations © 2017 Zum Beamer/Charles Wood.
Zum Beamer 