Last Sunday, in one of Sydney’s newspapers, the Sun-Herald, there was an article about the styles of clothing etc that people are wearing in the differing demographics of Sydney and its suburbs.

There was a piece in the article about the Sutherland Shire where I lived for many many years.

The Shire as it is known has many wonderful free public swimming pools and the State’s best  surfing beaches. A strong a surf culture pervades the whole of the place.

In my distant youth I was a ‘surfie’ and with my mates carved out our own piece of ‘turf’ on the Cronulla Beach. Of course things were different in the fifties. All that was needed to establish your own ‘turf’ was to regularly(meaning every available minute of every available day, rain, hail or shine) sit, stand or lie down in exactly the same place on the sand, with your enormous beach towel and the wearing briefest allowable swimmers.

That was it, no violence, no confrontations, just recognition that the particular bit of sand was taken, permanently.  The same situation existed on every beach around the country.

But back to the article in point, what really struck me about the article was that recently Lucy Danvers in her blog, Fashion and Frappes, wrote an interesting fashion piece with a similar youngish tribal sort of theme.

Now I’m not into fashion, could be described as a ‘dagg’ in Ausie terms but I though the Sun- Herald’s article would interest and amuse many of us, particularly Lucy Danvers so I scanned the article and here it is, from the Sun Herald of June 14th, 2015:


APJ 004 copy

I hope you can read the print, it’s smaller than I thought it would be.


Last Saturday as I got ready to go out on the Harley I got out my super warm BMW Motorrad PCM ™ long johns to pull on and noticed what I assumed to be a long lost handkerchief bunched up in the lining over the right knee. Then I discovered a similar lump on the other leg. Then it occurred to me that there are no pockets in BMW long johns. Without cutting into the fabric there was no way I could remove the cause of the lumps. Therefor like any sensitive new age male would do, I left them in a heap on the floor to attend to when I got home.

And this is where the story really starts.

To paraphrase BMW’s promotional material, BMW Motorrad PCM ™ pants contain ‘Phase Change’ materials that regulate temperature fluctuations utilising the  properties of Schoeller®PCM ™ space age technology.

Their space age fabric contains paraffin capsules of minute dimensions that absorb body heat in a controlled fashion and works best in outside temperatures of between 5 and 15 degrees celcius. Ideal for our winter climate in the Southern Highlands.

Now I’ve used my long john Schoeller undies for many years and I can vouch for their efficiency, comfort and durability. I should add the caveat, ‘before you realise the garment has reached its used by date.’

Oddly enough, none of the tags, labels or other bumpf mention use by dates.

On my return home I grabbed the long johns from the floor, sat down, scalpel in hand and attempted to unpick the stitches surrounding bump number one. The stitching was designed to last forever and as my unpicking was not proceeding at speed I resorted to a quick scalpel slash across the fabric.  That was mistake number one because immediately following the cut, minute black sand like material spewed onto the carpet.  I jumper up with the long john in hand and rushed into the kitchen where the floor is tiled. That was mistake number two because I left a trail of the black substance in my wake. What a surprise awaited me inside the fabric sack though. I pulled just under two handfuls of the black muck from the interior space. Some of it was rolled into golf ball sized hunks and was damp to the touch. The rest was granulated and in differing sizes. Fortunately it was odour free. I consigned it to a plastic bag and got rid of it.

Next, prior to the return home of my significant other I rushed around the trail of evidence with the vacuum cleaner and removed all traces of my misdemeanour. Of course, later that evening I made a full confession. A stupid admission as it turned out. There was no visible evidence. Even the vacuum cleaner bag had been changed. My confession was totally unnecessary. Fortunately the Judge, Jury and Executioner thought it was humorous and recorded no conviction against me. Not even a bond or a small fine, not even a reprimand.

Just goes to prove that confession can be good for the soul. Or something like that.

Lesson learned, I waited for today to continue my surgery on the other leg and for evidentiary purposes made a photographic record of the event.


If you look closely you will see there are a few bulges around the knee on the leg to your left as you look at the image and also a small incision around the knee on the other leg. Note that all of these photographs were taken on the outside of the house.

The bulges are more evident in the next image.

                                           THE TELL TALE BULGES.

I’d just draped the long johns over the outside table and sliced into the fabric when my supervisor decided to get up close and personal.


Have a look at the next two images of the granulated, dried out Schoeller gunk.

                                                WHAT CAN I SAY!

It’s all turned out well though, I’ve Googled my nearest BMW dealer and yes, they have these marvels of technology in stock and with any luck, tomorrow, I’ll proudly possess a pair of newies, the purchase being fully approved by the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Then, as soon as the intermittent rain stops I’ll be out and about to try them out.

The beauty of BMW underwear is that other Harley riders have absolutely no idea that you have gone outside the fold in an effort to keep warm.

That’s one crime for which I will never confess.


Yesterday dawned below zero celsius with deep swirling fog. Initially I was disappointed with the weather because I had great plans for the day.

I’d psyched myself up that this would be the day I hopped on the Harley and would go for a bit of a fang.

Why did I need to psych myself up? Just before Christmas last year I had radical surgery for prostate cancer and, when I was leaving hospital my medical team said specifically,’ Keep off that bloody motor bike or you will do yourself a mischief.’

Since the surgery, the medicos all tell me I’m doing fine with a 99.9% chance of a full recovery, good news indeed.

During the past six months I’ve regularly ( that means daily)  popped into the shed and had a yarn with my Harley, given it an occasional pat and, you will be delighted to know, had absolutely no desire at all to give it a kiss.

But back to yesterday. By midday the temperature had risen to 14c and the fog had gone.

So, on with the leathers and the open face helmet, slip on the sunnies ,throw the leg over the bike, start up, into gear and off like a rocket.

What a hoot. I felt I had sprouted wings as I thundered through the twisties, gunned the bike down the straights and did the occasional rapid stops just to make sure I still had the knack.

How I’ve missed the thrill.

Physically and mentally I felt fine although I have to admit that an occasional feeling of apprehension did arise when I thought I’d overcooked it in some of the bends. Then I remembered that my Harley isn’t a sports bike and the odd wiggle mid turn is just one of my bikes characteristics.

I only made one mistake. I wore far too much bulky warm clothing and my leather jacket felt more like a straight jacket. However, it didn’t diminish my delight to be back on the road.

Riding a motorcycle is wonderful for the mind. All cares, doubts and worries disappear and your head fills with sound of the rushing wind, the noise of the exhaust, the fun of leaving tin tops in your wake and the simple pleasure of being in total charge of your existence. It’s absolutely mind blowing and wonderful, not to mention exhilarating.

After a round trip of 160km, about 100 miles, I arrived back at Cassa Creakingbones absolutely chuffed with myself. No aches or pains, just like old times. The past six months are just that ,past.

I checked the oil and tyre pressures, gave the bike a quick wash and dry, locked it to the concrete floor of its garage and then gently gently covered it up.

After coffee and some buttered banana bread with my Significant Other she remarked that now I wouldn’t be hanging around the house but be out on the bike at every opportunity. There is no doubt about my wife’s intuition, she knows what I’m going to do before I’ve even contemplated doing it. Who am I to argue with that.


Bugger, I’ve just hear the four day weather forecast. Would you believe the forecast for the next three days is rain. Everyone knows that you can’t get your Harley dirty so I’ll just have to stay indoors. At least I’ve got a good supply of polish.


It’s funny how some individuals curse social media and advancing technology. They make excuses  that they don’t need it, don’t want it, can’t understand it or can’t be bothered with it. And as for iPads, Kindles and the like they chant in unison, ‘Bring back the good old written word , nothing beats going to bed with a good book.’

However, when, for some reason, the technology is suddenly unavailable they feel deprived, agitated, cut off from the main stream and more importantly, they have no plausible excuse requiring them to turn on the computer, that object they so despise.

With Casa Creakingbones being cut off from the net for the last seven or eight days there has been considerable discussion here about the net, web sites, blogs, emails and other topics revolving around general matters technological. Did those discussions canvas our service disruption and its causation? Oh no, matters of far greater importance.

All positive of course! For example; Why do we need high speed downloads? Why do we need a screen with greater resolution? Do we really need a larger screen for the big desk top? Why are there so many updates to Google? We pay how much for our internet connection! Surely the nine ink tanks for the printer don’t cost that much!!!!! Do we really need another external 8 terabyte hard drive? Why should we get a new Macbook Pro with a superdrive when we never use the one we already have?

The list goes on.

Now I realise that none of you would ever, possibly, even in your wildest dreams even pose such questions. Not even silently to yourselves.

That is because we know all of the foregoing are essentials in maintaining our digital lifestyle, to remain in contact with the outside world, to blog and to use snipe on eBay.

However, from early AM today there is no need for me to ponder on how to honestly answer the matters that have been the subject of such serious discussion within the walls of Cassa Creakingbones.

Simply put, the computer in my Significant Other’s office is back on line, email has been restored. Eureka, we are back in touch with the Knitters Guild, the Golf Club, the University of the Third Age,The Wildlife Rescue Service,The Patchwork Group, The Luncheon Club and quite a few other minor organisations, not to mention those individuals listed in the address book.

Fortunately, as is expected of any bloke, I’m way in front with all of the organisations with which I simply have to remain in contact, for example, the two Camera Clubs, the four motor bike clubs and all of the blokes I regularly ride with. Now I can get off the phone and back to the key board.

Even our two cats have noticed the impact of the reconnect and are peaceful sleeping with full stomachs on their respective lounge chairs in our family room. Peace indeed.

Just in closing, I understand that the bloke operating the front end loader who expertly severed the telco’s underground cables will be refinancing his residence in the near future.


For a while my computer will be in limbo, meaning that my nimble fingers will not be dancing over this keyboard during that time.

Obviously during this enforced time in the wilderness I’ll be unable to read any of the interesting and informative blogs and comments that flow too and fro, nor read incoming emails or respond in any way.

These pesky interruptions to my internet access will commence at 0830hrs AEST today. When they are resolved it will be business as usual.

So hoo roo for the present and keep well.


A few weeks ago BCL Photography published a fantastic image of parts of a sewing machine and I immediately thought of my mother’s Singer machine.

The old treadle models like mom’s are now scarce on the ground and the other day I came across this great old image in an email from a friend. Here it is in all its glory:



Jason poked Jebbie in the side,”Hurry up, we gotta hurry and get there’.

“Get where’, she said. Jason just shrugged and thought to himself that Debbie was going totally ratty. They had talked about the destination a thousand times.

“Come on stupo”  said Debbie,” You think you are so bloody smart, talking in riddles, all you told me was that it was just around the corner, up the second on the left, down the lane and into the back of the place with the blue colour bond roofing where whats his name lives. What sort of telling me where is that?”

Jason didn’t answer and just pushed her into the car, slammed her door, jumped behind the wheel  and took off with a screech from the tyres.

Round the corner flat out and there were the cops. A quick stop. No seat belts!

‘We’ll never get there now,” said Jason. How right he was.

155 words.

This is my submission for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers hosted by Priceless Joy.  We are given a photo prompt and approximately 100-150 words, give or take 25, with which to write our stories. It’s fun and addictive. Everyone is invited to participate. If you would like to do so, pick on the link, FFfAW .

Also ake a minjujte to read other stories that are written for this challenge. Just click on the blue froggy button below and it will take you to the stories grid.l Have fun.