I am buying the weekend edition of the Sydney Morning Herald from one of Bondi’s many Ezy Marts. I pay my money, smile at the guy behind the counter and am just about to grab the paper when the Ezy Mart guy beats me to it and starts flicking through the pages. This throws me and I watch him, bemused. I’m about to ask him what’s up when, again, he beats me to it. “Read this.” He points at an article at the top of page six with a photo of a guy taking a beach selfie with a couple of mates. “Ok – will do.” I grab the paper and leave before he has the chance to suggest any other articles. Once I’m home, showered and ready to read, I of course immediately turn to page six. The headline is: “Terrorism probe of fatal stabbing at service station.” As I work my way through it, I realise the article is about the Caltex shop worker who was killed by a couple of crazed teens in Queanbeyan the day before, possibly as an act of ISIS inspired terror. I had seen something on the news the night before. It was a sad story. But why had the Ezy Mart guy wanted me to read it? The Caltex worker was Pakistani. It’s possible my Ezy Mart guy was too. Did he know the victim? I look at the photo and notice that the two mates in the background have had their faces pixilated. Why? Maybe it was a Facebook photo and the paper didn’t want to track down the mates to ask for consent. I wonder if any of my Facebook photos will ever appear in the paper. Maybe the one of me dressed as a Japanese medieval warrior, sword in hand. It would be an ironic image if I’m ever a murder victim. My mind wanders back to the Ezy Mart guy. What if he had no other connection with the victim other than having shared a similar job? Maybe he just wanted me (and whoever else he urged to read the article) to simply think about people like him who work in such shops – potentially vulnerable to crazed killers. If so, he succeeded. I go back to the front page and read about how a tweeting president is getting closer to his goal of starting World War Three.

We have new neighbours. I know this because the window of our kitchen looks across a gap between buildings and into the kitchen window of a unit in the block next door. I already knew that the previous residents had vacated and was reasonably happy about it. They recently had a baby daughter whose lung capacity was rapidly expanding, giving her ever greater volume. Her parents were no doubt unconcerned whether or not we were bothered by her nightly screams, given that over the past three years they had endured the frequent and unpredictable yapping of Nitro the Two Toned Cavoodle. So their exit has pretty much suited all parties. The new neighbours are a fairly young, relatively attractive couple. Perhaps this is their first place together. They certainly seem very lovey-dovey. I know this because earlier today I saw them kissing in the kitchen. Cute. Then the guy started making humping motions while the girl giggled. Normally I might find such playfulness endearing – testament to the joys of young love. But, unfortunately, because this action was framed by that particular window, I was a little horrified. This is no fault of theirs. The blame rests solely with the original resident that lived there when we first moved in. At first he was a bachelor. After an impressive parade of women passed by that window over several years, finally there was just one. It was in the first year together that my wife and I happened to spy them late one night. I was vaguely aware of their presence but wasn’t really paying much attention as I was so used to seeing them. It was my wife who, somewhat wide-eyed, suggested I take a closer look. I did and saw the woman standing in a robe. The man was opposite, leaning against the kitchen counter. But he wasn’t wearing a robe. In fact, he wasn’t wearing anything at all. This in itself was a shock. But wait – there’s more. Not only was he naked, a certain part of his anatomy was standing to attention. And, believe it or not – there’s more still. The organ in question was not just standing to attention – it was moving up and down, as if being put through a late night exercise routine. There are not many things I have seen in my life that I wish I could unsee – but that image is, and will probably remain, at the top of my list. From that moment on, we always referred to that neighbor as ‘Flexi’. So, while it’s likely that the young lovers next door are wonderful people, any hanky-panky they get up to in their kitchen, clothed or otherwise, will always rekindle that stomach churning image of Flexi in action.

Eating burgers in the back of a rented recreational vehicle parked outside of Macca’s. Hardly a highlight of our family’s adventure around New Zealand’s north island. But this trip is on its last legs and our only goal now is to re-fuel on fast food and get back on the freeway. So once the rubbish is binned, it’s time to get out of the parking area. But how? I have a look and the only possible exit I can see seems to go via the drive thru lane. It’s a bit narrow. But I’ve already managed to navigate this behemoth around some of the island’s most nerve wrecking roads with only minimum damage (paying for the excess-free insurance option proved to be a wise move). So away we go. Until we stop. The raised kerbs take a twist that the RV will not negotiate. Fuck. What do I do now? I look behind me and see a line of cars full of hungry Kiwis. Some start to honk their horns. I try to back out but hit the kerb. My wife is telling me that she said this wouldn’t work. This is not helpful information. A big Maori woman in a Macca’s uniform walks up to my window to say that I can’t go through this way. This is also not helpful information. An irate guy is asking me if I want him to back it out for me. He may as well be asking me to chop off my manhood and hand it over to him. No thanks – I got this. He rolls his eyes and decides to direct me. I inch forward and hit the kerb. I turn the wheel. I inch backwards and hit the other kerb. Sweat is sliding down my face. I turn to see that I now have a considerable audience of bemused Kiwis standing outside their cars watching the show. A couple are even filming it on their phones. I imagine my ordeal appearing on “New Zealand’s Worst Drivers” or “How Stupid are Aussie Tourists?”. Perhaps it will go viral over the net. After what seems like an eternity in Humiliation Hell, I finally  manage to back the RV out of the drive thru lane. There is a small round of applause.

“What are you doing with that?” I stop, the heavy ceramic pot feeling gravity’s tug towards the ground. I look up at my confused mother in law on the verandah. I too am confused. I thought she was aware that we’d be taking some her pots home so she wouldn’t have to chuck them when she moves later in the year. Before I can reply, my wife comes to the rescue and urges me on while she explains to her mother that this had already been flagged. So I load up three pots and we transport them from Sydney’s south to Bondi. My son helps me hide them in a corner of our apartment block’s front yard. A few days later, I also hide a couple of nice climbing plants in full bloom and several bags of potting mix. I’m excited that I will soon be able to add to the existing pot with the same type of climbers. My hope is that these attractive bell shaped flowers will eventually climb their way up several dead bamboo shoots – the skeletal remains of a previously failed garden project. The next afternoon, sweat dripping down my face on another humid day, I plant the pots and position two either side of the larger existing one. I also plant an avocado tree that a generous neighbor has given me. I look at my handy work, pleased with how it brings more colour to the front garden. It also feels good to use pots that were destined for the rubbish tip. Over the next few days I keep an eye on them. The climbers seem to be doing well but the avocado tree is struggling. The weather keeps alternating between scorching sunshine and torrential downpours. It is about a week later that I am shocked to see that the two floral pots are no longer there. It takes me a moment to comprehend that they’ve been stolen. What the fuck? Who would do that? I do my best to shrug it off but it eats away at me over the next few days, especially every time I walk past the scene of the crime. It is only days later that a recent memory pops up and demands attention. I recall looking out the window when yet another thunderstorm was threatening. As huge drops started crashing to the ground, I noticed two big dudes in workmen gear outside the building next door. They each grabbed a big pot plant near the entrance and walked off. At the time I assumed they were removalists or in some other way authorised to take the plants. But in hindsight, I now reckon that they were pot plant thieves – quite likely working on the building site across the road and loading stolen plants into their truck at the end of their shift.  Days later they would be doing just that to the plants in our front yard. It does my head in that there are people whose moral compasses are so out of whack that they can do such a thing. What are they doing with them? Surely there’s not a huge black market in stolen pot plants. Do they go home to a garden full of plants nicked from all over Sydney? I just don’t get it. My faith in my fellow man takes a particularly low blow.   

I am in the park doing my daily yoga routine, Nitro the Two Toned Cavoodle wandering about, nose to the ground. Unusually, I am not in my preferred spot. A couple are having their own yoga workout where I tend to have mine. Interestingly, they have a small tripod set up and are recording themselves with a Go Pro. The woman seems to be instructing the man. I manage to position myself behind a tree so as not to be distracted or distracting. I am on my back, about to do some spinal twists, when I spread out my arms. Suddenly, a sharp pain shoots down my left arm. Ouch! I sit up and check it out. I can’t see anything but it feels like I’ve been stung. I search the ground for some sort of stinging creature – bee, wasp or bull ant. Nothing. I look at the spot just above my elbow. I can’t see any swelling or any tiny stinger sticking out. I give it a rub. That helps. I decide to continue my stretching. The pain subsides. I finish and call Nitro over. I attach the lead to his collar and hook it around my foot. He knows the routine. I’m about to close my eyes and meditate. The one time I did this without securing my dog, he got into a fight. It cost me a hundred dollars in vet fees. I meditate. When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is a wasp laying on my black straw hat. Is this the culprit that put me in pain earlier? It seems to be dying, barely moving. I know that bees die soon after they sting but I’m pretty sure wasps don’t. Maybe it’s some sort of skinny bee. As I watch it, I notice an ant has now crawled on top of it, possibly getting ready for a feed. Is the wasp/bee about to be eaten alive? Is it maybe already dead – the movement of its wings similar to a headless chook’s ability to still run around? Should I squash it and put it out of its misery? Can wasp/bees even be in any misery in the first place? Or should I just let nature take it’s course? Deciding the dilemma doesn’t warrant as much thought as I’m already giving it, I flick the wasp/bee off my hat. I notice that the ant is still there, no doubt wondering what the hell happened to the wasp/bee it was about to eat. I shake the hat and the ant sails off. Time to go home.