brats
This morning Claire finally reacted to sleeping in three cities in as many nights by turning into Veruca Salt on angel dust. This will sound odd, but my parents aren’t really kid people, so her relentless klaxxon was a bit wearing on their nerves.
“You might want to watch that show Supernanny,” said my dad gently. “Not criticism, just a bit of friendly advice.”
I expect they were well relieved to leave us in the rear-view mirror, but I miss them already.
We hiked (bushwalked) down to the Pool of Siloam under Gordon Falls. It’s the most insanely beautiful spot, a little golden sandy beach in a rainforest with a fifty-foot waterfall trickling into the clear shallow pool. It wasn’t exactly tranquil, though, as there were two National Parks rangers working on the trail (track?) One had a leafblower.
“A leafblower?”
“You bet! If I had to sweep it, I’d be here for donkey’s years!”
“…I guess.”
He said that thirty years ago the pool had been so deep, you couldn’t swim to the bottom. The golden sand is all sediment from the human settlement up in Leura.
An uncomplicated drive home. Jules woke up as we drove up Bellevue Road, and bleated in a professional manner.
“She’s drawing up a request for milk. She’s a growing concern, and needs venture lactation.”
“The investment is earmarked for cells and marketing.”
Two more stories about various brilliant children. I asked Kelly if she believed in God, and she said:
“It all seems a bit far-fetched.”
And Julia, after carefully examining the cat Kashmir’s white paw, laid it down carefully and picked up for the purposes of comparison her own fat pink foot.
