T
tfb
Guest
A strange-but-true story (from my website) that all you GS-ers might appreciate...
After our wedding in August 1992, and as soon as the summer warmth began to thaw the Great Southern Land, my wife Kerry and I loaded up our GS1000S and did a 5-week trip over to NSW to visit my rellies and the old stomping-grounds.
We stopped for fuel and food in Wilcannia, a town on the Darling River in western NSW. What a joint. The windows of many of the shops were boarded up, covered with sheets of corrugated iron. Utes full of the unemployed were milling around through the township, stirring up the dust. Wouldn't want to be here at night, I thought.
I asked Kerry to stay with the bike (it had already attracted a crowd of inquisitive and perhaps opportunistic kids), while I went into the roadhouse to sus out the food situation.
As I walked up to the counter, I was taken aback by the appearance of the gentleman on the other side, for the simple reason that he had only one eye; on the other side of his nose there was nothing but a hollow socket.
Not allowing this to break my rhythm, I asked what was on the menu.
"The cook's sick," he croaked.
My rhythm faltered. "Err, how about two meat pies?" I ventured. He gave a nod and retreated into the bowells of the establishment.
I heard a microwave fire up, and 5 minutes later I was back out the door to see how Kerry was going with the locals.
We unwrapped the pies, and took a bite. That was as far was we got; they tasted rotten. Foetid, in fact.
Right on cue, a red heeler dog hobbled over. He was hobbling because he had only three legs (and naturally, we may assume he belonged to the one-eyed pieman). His tongue was lolling out the side of his mouth, an expectant and eager look on his face. He knew the pies were his.
As the dog gratefuly gobbled up the pies, I did him a further service by pulling several huge ticks off his neck. By now we were really off the idea of lunch, so the excellent evening meal in the Cobar RSL went down very well indeed.
Mike.
After our wedding in August 1992, and as soon as the summer warmth began to thaw the Great Southern Land, my wife Kerry and I loaded up our GS1000S and did a 5-week trip over to NSW to visit my rellies and the old stomping-grounds.
We stopped for fuel and food in Wilcannia, a town on the Darling River in western NSW. What a joint. The windows of many of the shops were boarded up, covered with sheets of corrugated iron. Utes full of the unemployed were milling around through the township, stirring up the dust. Wouldn't want to be here at night, I thought.
I asked Kerry to stay with the bike (it had already attracted a crowd of inquisitive and perhaps opportunistic kids), while I went into the roadhouse to sus out the food situation.
As I walked up to the counter, I was taken aback by the appearance of the gentleman on the other side, for the simple reason that he had only one eye; on the other side of his nose there was nothing but a hollow socket.
Not allowing this to break my rhythm, I asked what was on the menu.
"The cook's sick," he croaked.
My rhythm faltered. "Err, how about two meat pies?" I ventured. He gave a nod and retreated into the bowells of the establishment.
I heard a microwave fire up, and 5 minutes later I was back out the door to see how Kerry was going with the locals.
We unwrapped the pies, and took a bite. That was as far was we got; they tasted rotten. Foetid, in fact.
Right on cue, a red heeler dog hobbled over. He was hobbling because he had only three legs (and naturally, we may assume he belonged to the one-eyed pieman). His tongue was lolling out the side of his mouth, an expectant and eager look on his face. He knew the pies were his.
As the dog gratefuly gobbled up the pies, I did him a further service by pulling several huge ticks off his neck. By now we were really off the idea of lunch, so the excellent evening meal in the Cobar RSL went down very well indeed.
Mike.
