The miracle has happened. Four-year-old Cleo Smith has been found. Alive in a locked house. After eighteen days of frantic disbelief. A little girl snatched from her family's tent at a remote campsite. Discovered in her home town. Oh my giddy aunt.
This post was going to be titled "Chanelling My Inner Rumsfeld". My mood has been particularly unstable lately and I was wondering if the Black Dog was returning to nip at my heels or if I was just suffering from chronic tiredness as I await my trial with a CPAP machine to hopefully alleviate my severe sleep apnoea. The weather hasn't helped. I keep waiting for the universe to flick the switch that heralds the warm sunny days of late spring before the heat of another Wheatbelt summer slams into us. Instead, the skies have been stubbornly grey and the temperatures well below average. I was musing those great unanswered questions - I know the knowns, but do I know the unknown unknowns?
Mister Rumsfeld actually kicked the bucket in late June this year. I don't remember seeing any reports about his death. Maybe that was because he was considered as one of the worst Secretaries of Defence, and aided the slippery slide into the disaster that the Middle East and South Asia has become ever since.
So, there I was, pondering my navel again yesterday and my mood began to improve. The clouds parted and the sun peeped through. The weather, although not exactly tropical, was at least a step up from the intermittent pseudo-winter gloom. We attended the local travelling eye show - optometrist Peter Tidman had set up shop in the old RSL hall. A few repairs and adjustment to Michael's glasses and he could see clearly again! No sign of any diabetic damage in his eyes and no evidence of cataract formation as yet. My script had changed a bit and we also decided to get me a dedicated pair of computer specs. These will come first and my updated lenses in January.
What was just intriguing and completely unexpected was Peter himself and his life stories. His father was a tall Norwegian and his mum an exotic tiny mixed race woman. So Peter, with his grey pigtail, his totally non Anglo Saxon appearance and his casual demeanour was a blast of freshness. He also explained the process of the eye test and the mechanics of "finding the sweet spot". He regaled us with his life, his children, his adventures and his passions. I could have drunk him up all afternoon.
Staggering out into the mid afternoon brightness, we headed for the Freemason's Tavern. The Melbourne Cup (the race that stops a nation) had come and gone earlier in the day. All I was concerned for was the horses' safety. After a string of deaths over the last eight years in international horses, this year was a relief - only one horse was injured and is expected to make a full recovery.
The pub was still in post Melbourne Cup swing. We began chatting with chefs Carlo and Sue, publican Graham, some Brookton friends of Carlo and our newly minted deputy shire president, Chris Lawlor. What transpired was a delightful afternoon discussing all aspects of Heavenly Beverley with a switched-on, proactive member of our community. Sue produced buffalo wings for us to share and we enjoyed a few glasses of vino before retiring back to Station House. The weather had turned distinctly chilly, so I abandoned watering our pots.
Instead, I relished in a late afternoon kip. A Nanny Nap. A snooze on the couch. I woke, feeling remarkably refreshed a couple of hours later in time to watch Michael Portillo gallivanting across Canada. Michael prepared some leftover Parmi and savoury muffins for dinner. We retired to bed after a spot more of the idiot box.
In his quest to become spontaneous, I found a glass of white wine on my bedside table, placed there by my darling man. Michael had no memory of such a gesture. Roaring with totally spontaneous laughter, I popped the glass in the fridge and made my night time cup of tea.
And on this wonderful day, Cleo is safely at home with her Mum and Step Dad and her little sister.
Almost perfect. Still missing you, Rusty...
Life is a pleasure that you can measure
And hear what the birds have to say.
I heard a bluebird passin' the good word:
Ain't this a wonderful day?
While I was dreamin' in the shade of a tree,
And list'ning to their song,
I understood and I put it in words,
And you can help to pass it along.
Look on the bright side 'cause it's the right side.
Stay in the sun while you may.
I heard a bluebird passin' the good word:
Ain't this a wonderful day?
Performed by American jazz singer Anita O'Day
Cleo and her family...
Mister Lawlor - he is much less stuffy in the flesh...
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