Part 3 Flog Flees the Sundowners!
November 26th 2007 04:56
The first house we entered was the largest.
"We try to have people with similar views placed together."
I shot her a furtive glance, as I wondered just what ‘views’ she felt this first group shared. Being mostly in their eighties and nineties, it left a chasm into which I could easily fall.
Under my internal musings, I heard the nun speaking again, "... and so we will need some help with that, if you would be so kind?" "Of course!” jerked out of my mouth before I could think, I didn't want to admit I had not been listening, again. The last time I did that with a nun, I came out second best, with sore hands and a few Hail Marys.
But now, as the tiny beads of perspiration began to accumulate on my forehead, at the same rate as my heartbeat increased, I wondered what I had just volunteered for, and how on earth I was going to ask for the details.
“Excellent! I’ll let you know your duties closer to the date.” I felt a little calmer now, as I didn’t have to ask, and felt assured that whatever it was, it was most unlikely I had to strip in public, or suffer the humiliation of being auctioned for a night! Yet, as soon as I relaxed, my over-active imagination sprang back into gear, and a spectacle opened before my eyes, a gaggle of nuns, all jeering and laughing and pointing, at my semi naked person, oiled up, in Speedos, and wearing a black bow tie, like some stuffed turkey waiting to be served up on a platter, to some grotesque and grasping old hag!
Dwelling on these thoughts, I shuddered, we had entered another room.
I had completely missed my introduction to the kitchen aide. I was walking on automatic, again. ‘Day dreaming again, Fog?’ flooded an unpleasant memory. Then out came the feather duster, real feathers, of what I never found out, maybe turkey, now wouldn’t that be ironic? The handle was a long thick cane, which could deliver a heavy blow if wielded by a strong arm, like the one my second grade teacher had. The boys copped it on the knuckles; you made a fist first and then held your arm out. The girls got slapped with a light weight ruler across the back of their shins. Oh how I ached for the day men and women were treated equally.
Funnily enough, many years later, Germaine Greer would become a family friend.
A searing silence and steely eyes focused me back into the room. The first thing my eyes settled upon, was a woman holding a fluoro green feather duster, with a puzzled expression compressed into her heavy features. I think my jaw dropped slightly. No feathers actually, it was nylon, with a long black plastic handle. I wondered why they were still called feather dusters, when not a feather had ever been attached.
Just as I began to picture turkeys covered in fluoro green puffy nylon coats, the head nun, once again, interrupted my revelry. “Fog, this is Mary Joseph, she is in charge of the kitchen.”
“You are not allowed to eat here, even if you bring your own lunch!” What Mary Joseph lacked in humour and manners, she made up for with brevity.
Before I could make any sort of noise, Mary Joseph had turned away and was in a flurry of featherless dusting.
We left, both without a further word. I could tell I was not the only one wanting to give old Mary Joseph an earful. “She may be a little taciturn, but she has a heart of gold.” was all that was said as we entered a formal dining area. “We never use this area for dining. It is carpeted and we don’t want unnecessary difficulties cleaning up a mess.” I wasn’t going to argue with her, nor ask what sort of mess!
However, this particular day, the big dining table had twelve women seated at it. They were in the middle of a game, of sorts, I had no idea what it was, or how you played it, there were no cards or board, just a helper lady with a book of lists. I think they had to guess the answers,
“Hello girls, this is your new volunteer.” A small slightly out of breath asthmatic gasp came forth, as old dolls leaned over and around each other to get a gander at their new ‘toy’, me!
“I hope you are staying for at least three years! Not like the last one, she didn’t last three days!” said a heavily lacquered black dyed beehive. Her request, the barking tone of which sounded more like a Nazi command, received an assortment of reactions, from ‘tut tuts’ to giggles, and all gave me the careful once over, my anxiety exploded, I nearly fainted.
THREE YEARS!!! And the last human sacrifice lasted a mere three days! I wanted to, and didn’t want to, ask why only three days? The old dolls didn’t look like sado-masochists, but, you never know. Maybe the nuns were a cover for a coven?
So, that just about confirmed it for me. TIME TO ESCAPE! ESCAPE NOW!!
The wily old nun was way ahead of me. “Mrs. Merryweather, please don’t frighten him off before he starts here! Right Fog, on to the next place.” And we left. I was then shown the electric golf buggy.
At last, I thought, something to take my mind off things. My duties were to pick up a few old dolls and take them on a ride. That sounded quite nice I thought. I began imagining us whizzing down to the beach for a lovely paddle in the shallows. Regrettably, no, the ride was just around the small complex. Every day the same trip, lasting only a few minutes each time.
I wondered what that trip would be like, after a year. I also wondered whether the mental health of the inmates deteriorated faster, the more times you went on that same mindless, purposeless ‘trip’.
I decided I would have to do something different with it. “Well, they’re waiting!” The head nun gestured behind me, a small posse of dolls stood in the doorway. “What? Now?” The head nun nodded. I was very nervous. I suppressed thoughts of 5kph accidents tossing old dolls asunder. My reverse was greeted with guffaws, as I jerked, on and off, the accelerator and brake pedal. The last time I had driven one of these contraptions, was on Bowral golf course, some twenty five years ago, giggly drunk and cross eyed stoned, playing with a pal, we stocked the buggy with bourbon and coke premixed cans, a cigarette case full of pre-rolled joints and yet, considering my condition, it was remarkable to me that I managed to set the course record, a 69, on the first hole!
I smiled at the old dolls, feigning good humour. Then forward, this was greeted with a hilarious outburst of laughter, they were starting to annoy me. I had to get the upper hand, to some how gain control, or forever be doomed to the ridicule of octogenarians.
Then it occurred to me, we were on a tour of sorts, so why not a tour of the homes of the rich and famous?
A mischievous thought came into mind;
‘Welcome folks, to Wobblywood, and the tour of the wealthy and incontinent, the wondering and wandering; see the bewildered pancake plastered faces of the mindless. Point and jeer at their lacquered hair helmets with the garish colours!’
Luckily, I kept that to myself. Instead, I started a Hollywood style travelogue. Initially, I ignored the head nun’s gaping mouth, and the confused silence in the rear, but when we neared the private villas, where people of money and physical independence lived, my humour caught on! We had a ball! Roaring with laughter, even the head nun was laughing, under her hand of course! Nothing like a bit of jealousy, to bring out the funny bone!
After much fun the trip finally ended, we were all exhausted, five minutes later. The girls waved goodbye and looked forward to the next excursion. One of the girls then called out, “What about Bollywood next time?” More gales of laughter, and suddenly I felt sunk again. Bollywood? I squirmed at the thought of trying to be amusing, without generating unwarranted racist remarks by the audience, besides the fact, I didn’t know any Bollywood stars’ names, nor would I pronounce them properly, which would only generate more evil cackles no doubt.
Finally, we were nearly at the end of my little introduction tour. “There is just one more place you need to learn about. You will love it, we all do!” It was the unexpected and fulsome cheer that caught me off guard. The head nun had not given a toothy grin once so far, I was feeling wary again. Her smile and cheery voice was the kind you see in an old, badly acted, melodrama from the fifties in Britain, just before the boat sinks!
Something was afoot. “It is a special place, where our cherished and much loved Sundowners are kept. Follow me.”
Sundowners? Kept? Now my heart was really racing. “They take up far too much of our time, so with you here, we will be free to do all the other things we need to do.” Her effusive cheer was beginning to annoy me. I felt the urge to grab her by the wrist, turn her face to mine and make her admit the truth, ‘WHAT’S WRONG WITH THEM?’
I was about to find out!
"We try to have people with similar views placed together."
I shot her a furtive glance, as I wondered just what ‘views’ she felt this first group shared. Being mostly in their eighties and nineties, it left a chasm into which I could easily fall.
Under my internal musings, I heard the nun speaking again, "... and so we will need some help with that, if you would be so kind?" "Of course!” jerked out of my mouth before I could think, I didn't want to admit I had not been listening, again. The last time I did that with a nun, I came out second best, with sore hands and a few Hail Marys.
But now, as the tiny beads of perspiration began to accumulate on my forehead, at the same rate as my heartbeat increased, I wondered what I had just volunteered for, and how on earth I was going to ask for the details.
“Excellent! I’ll let you know your duties closer to the date.” I felt a little calmer now, as I didn’t have to ask, and felt assured that whatever it was, it was most unlikely I had to strip in public, or suffer the humiliation of being auctioned for a night! Yet, as soon as I relaxed, my over-active imagination sprang back into gear, and a spectacle opened before my eyes, a gaggle of nuns, all jeering and laughing and pointing, at my semi naked person, oiled up, in Speedos, and wearing a black bow tie, like some stuffed turkey waiting to be served up on a platter, to some grotesque and grasping old hag!
Dwelling on these thoughts, I shuddered, we had entered another room.
I had completely missed my introduction to the kitchen aide. I was walking on automatic, again. ‘Day dreaming again, Fog?’ flooded an unpleasant memory. Then out came the feather duster, real feathers, of what I never found out, maybe turkey, now wouldn’t that be ironic? The handle was a long thick cane, which could deliver a heavy blow if wielded by a strong arm, like the one my second grade teacher had. The boys copped it on the knuckles; you made a fist first and then held your arm out. The girls got slapped with a light weight ruler across the back of their shins. Oh how I ached for the day men and women were treated equally.
Funnily enough, many years later, Germaine Greer would become a family friend.
A searing silence and steely eyes focused me back into the room. The first thing my eyes settled upon, was a woman holding a fluoro green feather duster, with a puzzled expression compressed into her heavy features. I think my jaw dropped slightly. No feathers actually, it was nylon, with a long black plastic handle. I wondered why they were still called feather dusters, when not a feather had ever been attached.
Just as I began to picture turkeys covered in fluoro green puffy nylon coats, the head nun, once again, interrupted my revelry. “Fog, this is Mary Joseph, she is in charge of the kitchen.”
“You are not allowed to eat here, even if you bring your own lunch!” What Mary Joseph lacked in humour and manners, she made up for with brevity.
Before I could make any sort of noise, Mary Joseph had turned away and was in a flurry of featherless dusting.
We left, both without a further word. I could tell I was not the only one wanting to give old Mary Joseph an earful. “She may be a little taciturn, but she has a heart of gold.” was all that was said as we entered a formal dining area. “We never use this area for dining. It is carpeted and we don’t want unnecessary difficulties cleaning up a mess.” I wasn’t going to argue with her, nor ask what sort of mess!
However, this particular day, the big dining table had twelve women seated at it. They were in the middle of a game, of sorts, I had no idea what it was, or how you played it, there were no cards or board, just a helper lady with a book of lists. I think they had to guess the answers,
“Hello girls, this is your new volunteer.” A small slightly out of breath asthmatic gasp came forth, as old dolls leaned over and around each other to get a gander at their new ‘toy’, me!
“I hope you are staying for at least three years! Not like the last one, she didn’t last three days!” said a heavily lacquered black dyed beehive. Her request, the barking tone of which sounded more like a Nazi command, received an assortment of reactions, from ‘tut tuts’ to giggles, and all gave me the careful once over, my anxiety exploded, I nearly fainted.
THREE YEARS!!! And the last human sacrifice lasted a mere three days! I wanted to, and didn’t want to, ask why only three days? The old dolls didn’t look like sado-masochists, but, you never know. Maybe the nuns were a cover for a coven?
So, that just about confirmed it for me. TIME TO ESCAPE! ESCAPE NOW!!
The wily old nun was way ahead of me. “Mrs. Merryweather, please don’t frighten him off before he starts here! Right Fog, on to the next place.” And we left. I was then shown the electric golf buggy.
At last, I thought, something to take my mind off things. My duties were to pick up a few old dolls and take them on a ride. That sounded quite nice I thought. I began imagining us whizzing down to the beach for a lovely paddle in the shallows. Regrettably, no, the ride was just around the small complex. Every day the same trip, lasting only a few minutes each time.
I wondered what that trip would be like, after a year. I also wondered whether the mental health of the inmates deteriorated faster, the more times you went on that same mindless, purposeless ‘trip’.
I decided I would have to do something different with it. “Well, they’re waiting!” The head nun gestured behind me, a small posse of dolls stood in the doorway. “What? Now?” The head nun nodded. I was very nervous. I suppressed thoughts of 5kph accidents tossing old dolls asunder. My reverse was greeted with guffaws, as I jerked, on and off, the accelerator and brake pedal. The last time I had driven one of these contraptions, was on Bowral golf course, some twenty five years ago, giggly drunk and cross eyed stoned, playing with a pal, we stocked the buggy with bourbon and coke premixed cans, a cigarette case full of pre-rolled joints and yet, considering my condition, it was remarkable to me that I managed to set the course record, a 69, on the first hole!
I smiled at the old dolls, feigning good humour. Then forward, this was greeted with a hilarious outburst of laughter, they were starting to annoy me. I had to get the upper hand, to some how gain control, or forever be doomed to the ridicule of octogenarians.
Then it occurred to me, we were on a tour of sorts, so why not a tour of the homes of the rich and famous?
A mischievous thought came into mind;
‘Welcome folks, to Wobblywood, and the tour of the wealthy and incontinent, the wondering and wandering; see the bewildered pancake plastered faces of the mindless. Point and jeer at their lacquered hair helmets with the garish colours!’
Luckily, I kept that to myself. Instead, I started a Hollywood style travelogue. Initially, I ignored the head nun’s gaping mouth, and the confused silence in the rear, but when we neared the private villas, where people of money and physical independence lived, my humour caught on! We had a ball! Roaring with laughter, even the head nun was laughing, under her hand of course! Nothing like a bit of jealousy, to bring out the funny bone!
After much fun the trip finally ended, we were all exhausted, five minutes later. The girls waved goodbye and looked forward to the next excursion. One of the girls then called out, “What about Bollywood next time?” More gales of laughter, and suddenly I felt sunk again. Bollywood? I squirmed at the thought of trying to be amusing, without generating unwarranted racist remarks by the audience, besides the fact, I didn’t know any Bollywood stars’ names, nor would I pronounce them properly, which would only generate more evil cackles no doubt.
Finally, we were nearly at the end of my little introduction tour. “There is just one more place you need to learn about. You will love it, we all do!” It was the unexpected and fulsome cheer that caught me off guard. The head nun had not given a toothy grin once so far, I was feeling wary again. Her smile and cheery voice was the kind you see in an old, badly acted, melodrama from the fifties in Britain, just before the boat sinks!
Something was afoot. “It is a special place, where our cherished and much loved Sundowners are kept. Follow me.”
Sundowners? Kept? Now my heart was really racing. “They take up far too much of our time, so with you here, we will be free to do all the other things we need to do.” Her effusive cheer was beginning to annoy me. I felt the urge to grab her by the wrist, turn her face to mine and make her admit the truth, ‘WHAT’S WRONG WITH THEM?’
I was about to find out!
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Comment by KylieW
Celebrity Obsession
Great story. Look forward to reading Part 4
Comment by Mr Nice Guy
Pop Culturist
MNG
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Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
Next installment is about to be posted anyway...
cheers
fog
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Comment by Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
now you've got just five more parts to read!!! tee hee!!
cheers
fog
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
now it is finally finished,
you know what the Sundowners were all about.
hope you weren't too disappointed!
cheers
fog