Congratulations to Cardinal Camillio Doglione from Vatican City
who correctly identified the deliberate mistake in my last story.
A souvenir “The Bucket …is… full of it “ tee shirt is now winging it’s way to Cardinal Doglioni.
The young lady revealed in my previous expose was of course NOT my neighbour. She is Senior Research Fellow in Pneumatics at the University of Rome, as well as part-time aqua aerobics instructor for the Pontiff.
Today however, I would like to bore the living bejaysus entertain you with two short stories about my REAL neighbour, Saint Martin of FOT.
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Introduction; Mrs GOF and I live in a sparsely populated corner of the world. Our nearest, and only permanent neighbour for the last 29 years, Saint Martin of FOT, lives 800 metres away as the kookaburra flies, or 3 kilometres if the aforementioned kookaburra chose instead to walk and hop along the vehicular road.
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Story #1.
Saint Martin of FOT drives a small 4WD vehicle that, with a very small amount of modification in my farm workshop could easily be converted into a replica of the Popemobile. He almost unintentionally started this process on his previous vehicle a very long time ago when we were both young and moderately impoverished.
His ancient and severely-rusted-along-the-panel-joints Toyota Land Cruiser was vibrating and careening flat-chat down the steep dirt track heading towards civilisation when suddenly a large chunk of cabin decided to part company with the remainder of the truck.
It frisbeed upwards and backwards before crashing back onto the gravel road leaving Saint Martin of FOT speeding forth with his white knuckles holding onto the steering wheel for dear life. A howling gale was now rushing over his bald head, and his earlobe vortices generated contrails of condensed water vapour which funneled into the slipstream behind him.
Efficient brakes were just a long-lost memory for this old Land Cruiser and Saint Martin of FOT, during the kilometre that it required to come to a complete halt, philosophically concluded that this whole unfortunate incident was probably a sign from God that it was time to upgrade to a more reliable motor vehicle.
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Interlude; Saint Martin is indeed almost a saint.
Whilst he does not have a particularly high opinion of himself, everyone I know holds him in high regard.
Saint Martin is a very gentle man (most of the time) and quite diminutive in stature (all of the time).
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Story #2. One day, almost seventeen years ago now, Saint Martin of FOT accompanied me to a Bulk Meat Shop in Cairns.
Standing behind the counter was a mean-faced cleaver-meister who looked like Hulk Hogan’s twin brother whose staple diet could well have been steroids diluted only occasionally by slabs of barbecued tenderloin. A very large man wearing a blue and white striped apron who was carrying a boning knife in a huge paw which occasionally twitched involuntarily, probably because his blood nicotine was at a dangerously low level. Either that, or he had anticipatory relief-tremors because his diet had caused him to be seriously constipated.
I asked politely for “two kilograms of rump steak please.”
The Hulk replied “This is a BULK butchery. Didst thou not readeth mine heiroglyph outside? I only dispense WHOLE rumps.”
Despite The Hulk’s almost biblical explanation of his trading terms, Saint Martin of FOT casually walked around the counter, reached up and grabbed The Hulk by the lapels of his Bulk Butchery shirt and promised him permanent physical damage if he did not immediately “supply my friend with the requested two kilograms of rump steak.”
The Hulk meekly proceeded to cut two kilograms off a whole rump before neatly wrapping it in plain white paper whilst apologising profusely to me for his previous outburst of bad manners.
Neighbours like Saint Martin of FOT are as scarce as hen’s teeth.
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One of these stories is based on fact, the other a summary of the most vivid dream which I have ever had in my life. Please take your pick as to which is which.
Occasionally dreams and real life are like two peas in a pod.
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