Oh look, it's the Ocean!

Since we started to get old last month and decided we need to get out more before it’s too late, we’re always looking for places to go and things to see.  One day we decided we’d ride the bus and then the tram to Glenelg, one of Adelaide’s popular beachside suburbs, just for the heck of it – and because it’s been so long since we’ve seen a beach, it’s hard to believe we live in Australia.  But we didn’t want to get stuck on buses full of commuters and schoolkids, so the timing of the trip would be critical.  Linda puzzled over how to work it out, until Tony had a brilliant idea – ‘Let’s go really early, and have breakfast there, then we can come back before the kids get out of school, maybe even right after breakfast, and then we can go back to bed!’

Great idea!  That meant we had to get up at about 5am, so of course Tony couldn’t sleep and was roaming around the house at 2am – you know how delicate he is.

We got to the bus station with fifteen minutes to spare, due to Tony always wanting to go everywhere too soon in case we have a flat tire, which so far has never happened. It was cold outside, so we waited for the bus in the car. Then we heard a loud sports car arrive and do some complicated maneuvers to back in to a parking space so that he could drive straight out on his return, thereby saving time; this took him at least ten minutes.  When he left his car, we noticed that he hadn’t turned his engine off. So Tony went to tell him. The driver said in a strong Indian accent, ‘It is okay, I had a special switch installed on it so the engine stops one minute after I turn it off.’  And sure enough, it stopped. All Tony could think of saying was ‘Right.’  But what he was thinking was ‘Why?’

So we got on the bus with its narrow seats, which make it imperative that one’s journey is not in tandem with a stranger, especially a fat one, which would result in an unasked for intimate situation.  We managed the journey to Adelaide without falling on the floor, and walked to the nearest tram stop, where the tram to Glenelg was pulling up just as we arrived.  Tony congratulated Linda on her marvelous planning, but she said she had no idea what time the tram would be there, it was just serendipity.

The interior of Adelaide's trams used to look like this.

Now they look like this.  Shall we call it progress?

This was our first trip on one of Adelaide’s new trams, and we discovered, as everyone knows, that they’re very narrow and the seats are too hard. But heck, we ride for free, so can we really complain?  Apart from the man and woman screaming and swearing at each other at the back of the carriage, it was an uneventful, yet interesting journey through the back lanes of Adelaide’s suburbs.

After about half an hour, we arrived in Glenelg and went for a stroll down Jetty Road, which is packed with shops, cafes and ice cream parlours.  But as it was only about 8am, nearly everything was closed.  The street was almost deserted on this chilly winter morning, but a few intrepid shoppers were in the fruit and veg shop, and as we admired the avocadoes, a very noisy car roared up and parked alongside us.  It was an American car, and because we hardly ever see those over here, Tony was immediately entranced, and started taking pictures of it as its owner climbed out.

The big Chevy called Elvis.

And its proud owner.

He seemed to be a Russian gentleman, but it turned out he was only an Australian wearing a Russian hat, which we both admired very much.  He was pleased to discuss his great big Chevy, and told us it cost him $150,000.  Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t let Tony drive it.  He has a sign on it that says ‘Please do not touch’ because everywhere he goes, people want to look at, talk about and fondle his car. And sure enough, as we stood there, another man came along and started asking all the same questions Tony had just asked, and fondled the eagle on the hood.

We went to Bracegirdle’s House of Fine Chocolate for breakfast.   No doubt we could have had a really decadent chocolate breakfast, but we’re not quite as daring as that, so we opted for some very nice omelets instead, then continued our stroll towards the beach.

Soon Linda realized that once again, Tony had been distracted by something – this time it was a dog.  Not a remarkable dog in any way at all, just a dog called Stanley.  Stanley’s owner said he wanted to call the dog Derrick, but the kids insisted on Stanley, so what can you do?

Eventually we saw the sea and some sand, and deduced that we had reached the beach.  And there was the Glenelg Jetty, lonely in the winter weather, whereas in the summer it’s crowded with sunburned people fishing and jumping off it.  We walked along it, smelling the salty sea and a few other odd odours, and feeling dizzy when we looked over the side at the water.  Well, that’s that – we’ve seen the ocean again, something we try to do every 5 years or so.

A little way along the beach, we found a whole lot of large poles stuck in the sand.  A council worker told us they’re to hold up the volleyball nets in the summer, and he’s eagerly looking forward to the women’s beach volleyball competition where they hardly wear anything at all, and bounce around a lot.  Tony thought about staying there and waiting for this delightful spectacle, until Linda told him it would be few months yet before they even put the nets up.

Near the jetty, a memorial to South Australia's first settlers.

The Glenelg Town Hall, which houses the museum.

Then, just as we were heading into the museum all about South Australia’s history, Tony got a migraine.  That’s what happens when he gets excited about women bouncing around.  So he had to sit down for awhile and take a few emergency pills while Linda looked at the museum, and very interesting it was.  After 20 minutes or so, she had only seen a small part of it, but thought she should go and see how her beloved was doing, and whether he was able to join her.  She found him somewhat improved, but in no shape for a museum.  So instead, we went next door for coffee and scones with jam and cream.  We were the only customers in this little café on the beach, so the waitress and the chef both gave us their undivided attention plus lots of TLC for Tony, and delicious hot scones straight out of the oven.

We enjoyed our snack while sitting by a window watching a few intrepid dog-walkers, joggers and fortune-hunters with metal detectors on the beach, then decided we’d better head home so Tony could make a full recovery lying down.

The tram awaits - that's what we thought, but just when got within two feet of it, it left. 
Fortunately another one soon arrived.

On the tram back to Adelaide, we were entertained for the entire journey by a young man with a mobile phone plugged into his ear, perhaps permanently, talking VERY LOUD, probably to his mother, in Urdu or some other language that made it very frustrating to have to listen to all that noise without being able to understand a word of it.  Why didn’t everyone else on the tram rise up and protest, we wonder.  Indeed, why didn’t we start the protest movement ourselves?  Most people are just too damned polite.  Especially us.

Getting a Low-tech Pension

The insidious profusion of electronic gadgets in our lives reminds us of a story about Frank from Mount Puddin.  At 67 years old, he reduced his working hours, and wondered if he'd be eligible for a part pension.  So he dropped into the local Pensions and Benefits Office to enquire.  After a short wait in the queue of dole bludgers, he was greeted by a charming young lady called Shell-bee who asked how she could help him.  When he posed his question, she answered agreeably that all he had to do was fill in the appropriate form online and he would get an answer almost immediately.

Frank:  Online?
Shell-bee:  Yes, just go to our website and you'll find the form there under 'Pensions'.
Frank:  But I'm not online.  I don't have a computer.

Stunned silence met this last remark - in fact, Frank was pretty sure that a hush fell over the whole
place as the small crowd of young dole-bludgers and pretend job-seekers immediately started texting and tweeting the incredible news that some old guy doesn't have a computer.

One young eavesdropper's reaction to the news was caught on camera

Shell-bee was at a loss, and became totally flustered.

Shell-bee: But...um... how...  I don't underst... What do you mean?
Frank:  Couldn't you just give me the form?
Shell-bee: We don't do....  I don't think...  You're not online?  Just a minute.

Shell-bee sidled through a door behind her, pausing briefly to cast one more look of bewilderment at Frank.  Moments later, she returned with her supervisor, Armressle, a very large Swedish lady with an indomitable bust.

Armressle:  What's this?  You don't have a computer?
Frank: No.
Armressle:  Well you can use your smartphone, or your ipad.
Frank:  I don't have those either.
Armressle:  Not even an android tablet?
Frank: No. Can't you just give me a copy of the form and I'll send it back to you in the mail?

The texting and tweeting in the room reached mammoth proportions, and several people were now taking pictures of Frank and sharing them with their millions of Facebook 'friends'.  Some were recording the whole amazing encounter, to upload to YouTube.

Shell-bee and Armressle looked at each other, rolling their eyes in disbelief.  But as there seemed to be no other option, they eventually gave in and agreed to print out a form for Frank to take home with him.

Everyone stared at him as he turned to leave, one young spiky-haired creature called Crippen stopping him to ask what he meant about sending the form 'in the mail'.  That was a term he hadn't heard before.  When Frank explained the concept of the post office, Crippen was incredulous.

Crippen: Wow, man!  How cool is that?  You mean you can actually send real stuff to other places without a drone?
Frank:  Yes - letters, cards, even packages.
Crippen:  Holy crap!  I'm telling all my 'friends' about that!

And as Frank left, everyone in the place was in a fury of YouTube, Facebook, tweets and texts, and some were even using their smartphones to talk to other people in wild tones about the amazing new gadget called 'the post office'.

A Week in the Loony Bin

It's been an interesting week in politics, aka the loony bin, as it almost always is when you have a mob of buffoons calling themselves 'the government'.  So although these events may seem absurd, they're actually typical of the things that go on on all the time - and we're really not making this stuff up:
 

• The alleged Treasurer, Cocky Joe, who owns 3 or 4 multi-million dollar properties and thinks fuel tax hikes don't affect poor people, has decided that everybody, especially rich people like himself, should get an income tax cut.  He says rich people like himself pay too much tax (even though they have all kinds of nefarious yet legal ways of avoiding tax).  Meanwhile, he maintains that there's not enough money in the kitty to pay for silly things like hospitals, and wants to solve that problem by taxing health services.
• Joe's thought bubbles on tax didn't go over very well, so he tried to distract us by announcing that he's going to head up a new movement to make Australia a republic, even though his party doesn't want Australia to be a republic.  His Cabinet colleagues spent the rest of the week bashing him over his fat head.
  
  
  
  
  
   
• There's a movement afoot to allow same sex marriage in Australia, which is something most people don't care one way or another about.  But the Mad Monk, sorry we meant to say the Prime Minister, won't even allow the matter to be discussed, and has been dodging and weaving like crazy, to avoid having to even think about it.  He's a staunch Catholic, but he denies that his religion has any bearing on this issue.  His sister, a staunch lesbian, isn't helping him at all.
• The buffoons' latest plan for the environment is to prevent 'greenie vigilantes', i.e. people who are concerned about the environment, climate change, endangered species and all that rot, from legally objecting to new 'good for humanity' developments such as coal mines and fracking and throwing mine spoil onto the Great Barrier Reef.  'What business is it of yours?', they ask the Australian public. 'We're not going to endanger the economy just to save the environment.  But if anyone wants to object to wind farms, we'll be right behind you - we hate those ugly things.'
•  Have you ever wished you could hire someone to do the really hard part of your job, and get somebody else pay them while you still collect your usual salary?  Well, the so-called Minister for Education, Chrissy Poodle, has done it.  He's been trying to get a very unpopular bill through parliament for more than a year, but the Senate won't pass it.  So he's hired someone else to try to convince the obstinate Senators who are blocking the bill, that it really is a good bill and not the piece of crap we all know it is.  But most of these Senators refuse to meet with Chrissy's deputy. They've already rejected the bill twice, and they don't want to hear any more about it. So the deputy doesn't have much work to do, but he's doing it for about a month, and being paid $150,000 by the taxpayers who don't want the Senators to pass the bill.  Meanwhile Chrissy sits back and continues to rake in his full exorbitant salary, and sees nothing wrong with this, just as there's nothing wrong with him taking his whole family on really nice holidays, at taxpayer expense. 
  
  
  
  
  
• One of the obstinate Senators, Clive Barmy, says he's too busy to talk to Chrissy's deputy. And indeed he has been busy this week, making a short video in which he wears a bunny suit, apparently peddling an imaginary brand of Peanut Butter Jelly, which he smears on a mask of Captain Catastrophe, sorry we meant to say the Prime Minister.
  
  
  
• The latest opinion polls, like nearly every opinion poll since this rabble was elected, say the government is very unpopular, and would easily lose an election if one were held today.
• It's all too much for the Godawful Nightmare, sorry we meant to say the Prime Minister, who is spending the week hiding in a tent somewhere in the far north of the country, hoping it will all go away.  He's pretending to get to know the Aboriginal people, while explaining to them why it's 'too soon' to change the Constitution to recognize their existence.  So far the Aborigines have refrained from feeding him to the crocodiles, but we wouldn't blame them if they did.

Bumpkins Come to Grips with Worms

We like worms as much as the next guy, which is probably not all that much.  But it depends on what kind of worms are under discussion.  Intestinal worms, for example, are something we'd rather not mention.  But we're talking about the sort of worms that you have in a worm farm, which by the way, in case you don't know, are not the same as the earthworms in your garden.  If you ever get totally fed up with your worm farm (and we won't be surprised if you do), don't even consider throwing the worms in the garden, thinking they'll help break up the soil like earthworms do.  They won't.  Given half a chance they'll just eat all your veggies.

Which begs the question, what do you do with an unwanted worm farm? But we'll leave that for you to figure out.

Most of the time, worm farm worms are no trouble at all.  They're incredibly quiet and so well-behaved, you can easily forget they exist.  So you have to remind yourself to feed them some kitchen scraps now and then, and in return they give you all their excrement, both liquid and solid, which is just great for making the veggie garden grow.  Getting the liquid is no problem, it just drains out the bottom of the worm farm, and you don't have to use too many brain cells, energy or time putting a bucket underneath to collect it.

The solids are known as 'worm castings' - how quaint.  Why don't we call our own droppings 'people castings', we wonder.  Anyway, collecting the solids can be an altogether more taxing experience than putting a bucket somewhere.  Mind you, the people who make and sell worm farms will tell you until they're blue in the face that it's no trouble whatsover - all you do is put a tray of fresh bedding and food on top of the existing one, and wait for the worms to crawl, slither, slide, creep or whatever it is that worms do, up into the new tray to get to the food (if you're a worm farm novice, please note - the trays have holes in the bottom).  Soon you'll be left with a bottom tray full of worm castings minus worms, which you can then use in your garden.  Sounds easy.

But it isn't.  About two months ago we gave the worms a nice new tray to move into, with some tasty bits of banana peel, egg shells and spinach on top.  We made sure the castings in the bottom tray were touching the bottom of the top tray, so the worms had a clear run through the holes and up to the food.  But our worms must have been too comfy where they were, or maybe just incredibly lazy or stupid - how can you tell with worms? - because they chose not to move.  After about a month, there were only about three worms in the top tray, having a good old feast.  The other 997 worms were still hanging around in the bottom tray.  Another month went by, and still most of the worms had refused to budge, and we were worried they'd all be starving to death.  And anyway, we wanted those worm castings!

So we decided we'd have to evict the stubborn tenants by hand - yes, literally by hand.  This meant dumping the contents of the bottom tray on a table, and gradually sifting through all that worm poo, throwing all the worms we could find into one bucket and the sifted poo into another, and another, and another (those worms make a lot of castings).  So that was a merry afternoon's entertainment for us, hunched over a table full of worm poo, in the bitter cold of winter, without even a drop of brandy to sustain us.

The really sad thing is that after a little while, we both started enjoying the worm hunt, getting unreasonably excited every time we found a particularly large worm, or even better, a little swarm of tiny baby worms!  This boring winter really has gone on too long.

The Strange and Terrible Happenings in the Village

When we drove into Nairne to pick up our mail and a coconut one afternoon, it was noticeable that subtle and unpleasant changes had occurred in the township. On the surface it was just a small busy village in the Adelaide Hills. But as we sat watching the scene and thumbing through our snail mail of advertising, bills, and a wonderful real letter from Aunt Arlie, we realised that nearly all of the people walking the pavements and visiting the shops had so-called smartphones attached in one way or another to their ears. Some had headphones on, some had earbuds and some had black mechanisms like large hearing aids clamped behind their ears, and we must admit, those gadgets looked very painful. Perhaps that was why they were shouting, in what seemed to be distress.  

Those who weren't shouting to their absent besties were staring at the phones in their hands instead, and busily swiping away at them with dextrous fingers.  They were probably reading extremely important Facebook junk and tweets, or looking a pictures of themselves - equally important, no doubt.

It used to be just teenagers who had cell phones stuck in their ears, reporting to their mothers that they were indeed in the shops spending their parents' money big time, or staying overnight at Sally's house, whose real name is Jake the Junkie.  But now all their mothers, fathers, baby brothers and above average dogs are shouting into phones too, telling all and sundry that they're 'just going into the deli' or whatever. 'Who cares?' we can't help but ask.  

It's all reminiscent of the tin cans and string we used to play with when we were children. Some ‘phonies’ must have those memories too, as they haven’t quite grasped that they don’t have to shout loudly into their poofy little phonettes.  Sometimes the volume of their innermost secrets and peccadilloes can be overwhelming. Perhaps it's because the mobile is so small, they doubt its potency.  Little do they know that everybody in the post office now knows who has been doing what to whom, and how often, and what they like to wear during.  It gets hard to look people in the eye after awhile.

The mobile phone seems to have taken over completely in our small world, as we watch the populace cross the road without pausing to look at traffic, as though every call or text or tweet is imperative to their welfare, and must be assessed and answered immediately, preferably with a selfie. If they are actually chatting to real live people in the street, and the phone 'rings' (oh, what a quaint term), all real conversation must stop as they dive urgently into pocket or bag, pushing people impatiently out of the way. The summoning tone of the phone can be anything from a symphony orchestra to a jackhammer. There is only one rule - it must be loud. 

It's becoming quite obvious that the fabric of our little country society is disintegrating, and the telephone companies and ISPs are getting very rich on 'smartphones'.  We refuse to be a part of it, and are the proud possessors of a 'dumbphone' (yes, just one, which we share) that can't do anything beyond phone calls and text messages, (which we never send).  And we usually forget to bring it with us.

A Jolly Olde Blast from the Past

April 2001, when only one Texan came to visit us...
 

Embarrassed Texan Forgets
to bring Wife to Australia

Mike, a Texan on his way to Australia, was heard to mutter 'uh oh' by the people sitting near him on the plane, when he realised that he had left his wife Darlene, a celebrity on the cross stitch circuit, at home.  As the plane was about to land in Sydney, there was little he could do except invent a story to explain why she didn't accompany him on the trip which all her friends knew she was so looking forward to.

The story he came up with was all about Darlene's ears.  'They refuse to pop - they're completely popless,' he explained, 'so she can't get on an airplane.'  According to the story, seventeen ear nose and throat specialists had been coaching Darlene for ten days, to get her to grasp her nose firmly with thumb and forefinger and honk loudly, to force her ears to pop.  Unfortunately, although she eventually honked loud enough to frighten old ladies in their back yards and cause a spate of barking dogs, her ears stubbornly refused to pop.
 
While all of Darlene's Australian friends were terribly disappointed that she missed the trip, they had to agree that one Texan was better than no Texans at all, so they threw a party for Mike, and a jolly time was had by all.  Musical entertainment was provided by the Sawpit Gully Ramblers, catering by the Winsome Ridge Cafe, and performing chickens, sheep and kangaroos appeared courtesy of Winsome Ridge Enterprises.

To prevent Tony from attempting to sing with the Ramblers, we quickly shoved a saxophone in his mouth.

The chooks prepare for their 'Three Birds in a Bucket' comedy act.

Oscar and Humphrey's 'Who's on First' routine was a big favourite with the crowd.

Hamish the performing kangaroo relaxes between skydiving demonstrations.

Little did we know that Mike is a ventriloquist -
but since he didn't have his dummy on hand, Monica volunteered to help out.

Cynthia Bodice Investigates

Roving reporter Cynthia Bodice is always crashing around Gumtree Gully in her beat up old Ford, sticking her nose into everybody’s business.  Here are her latest findings:



Old Guy's Slippers Confiscated by Spouse

Henry Fiddle-Stick of Cowpat Road got some new slippers recently, $10 at the Kmart.  But they fit him so well, he kept forgetting he had them on, and was always wearing them to bed, and going outside in them.  Once he drove half way to his grand-daughter's wedding before he realized he was wearing them, and said, 'Oh bugger it,' and kept driving.  But walking around outside in slippers is not advisable in a horse, chicken and sheep infested area like Cowpat Road, especially for people who don't look where they're going.  Henry's wife was having fits every time he came in the house depositing several varieties of poo everywhere, including in the bed, and Henry became a slippered fixture at the hardware store, telling all and sundry that there's no need for his wife to get her knickers in a twist.  One day Henry's slippers mysteriously disappeared.  Henry is still searching for them, and his wife consistently denies the rumours about them being buried in the neighbour's compost heap.  Investigations continue.

Tomato Squasher Loses Job

30 year old Fripple Drain of  Swamp Court, Puddlepool, recently tried working for a living, when her mother threatened to throw her out. 'So I got a job at the spaghetti canning factory', said Fripple, 'but it was like horrible, man!  I had to like shove these tomatoes into the tins with the spag and it was major gross!  I was supposed to wear these kinky little like rubbery glove things, but man they were all slippery and weird and not cool at all.  Anyway, I got fired - it wasn't my fault that I kept sneezing into the tins, and like how was I supposed to know that some of my ciggy butts fell in?  I couldn't see anything for all the squashed tomatoes everywhere!  Nobody eats that crap anyway, right?'



Posh Persons' Cover Blown

Trombone Stink-Hankie Jr and his wife Loose Lucy Lou Stink-Hankie of Cowpat Road think they're posh with their made up double-barreled name and designer chickens.  But they're actually a couple of bums.

Shoplifter Calls Foul

Morticia Flap, shoplifter of Millers Bend, has set a record for being banned from every shop in the town. 'It's not fair,' she complained, 'How am I supposed to eat if they won't let me in to steal stuff?'  Hardware store owner Mambo Scratch, when asked to comment, said, 'I banned her years ago when she tried to walk out of the store with a whole roll of barbed wire in one of my wheelbarrows.  Since then I've caught her five times trying to sneak in the back door.  She's a menace.'  Morticia attempts to make a living as a starving artist, but so far she's only got the 'starving' part down pat, producing woefully inadequate creations that nobody in their right mind would call 'art'.  Her best work to date, 'self portrait with burnt pizza', says it all.

Beer Shortage Threatens

Sixty bottles of beer were brewed recently by Mr and Mrs Fred Sprinkle of Scudley Downs, but incredibly, only three bottles can now be found.  Fred and his wife  Freda have no idea where the others have gone, and believe a robbery has been perpetrated, possibly while they were out on the verandah drinking beer.  Ironically, a large box full of empty beer bottles has mysteriously appeared in a kitchen cupboard.  Investigations continue.

Bumpkins Sample Adelaide's Nightlife

Sometimes you have to step out of your everday shoes and do something different.  So we decided to go to Adelaide for a concert by the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra.  It was an early evening concert, which made it really radical for us, being out and about after dark for the first time in several years.  We wondered if we'd be able to stay awake past 8:30pm, but thought we'd give it our best shot.

The first problem was how to get to Adelaide.  Driving wasn't an option we cared to consider, so it was either taking the bus or hiring a helicopter like Bronwyn Bishop - a tough choice, but the bus won in the end, even though it meant we wouldn't get back to Winsome Ridge until after 10pm, which is like the middle of the night for us. So we drove into Mount Barker, parked the car in the very convenient park 'n ride, and got on the bus for free, because we're very old and have seniors cards.

It was a little weird heading out so late (it was nearly 5pm!) and seeing all the traffic from the city heading towards us, and the sun going down and the streetlights and headlights coming on.   How long have we lived on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere?  Seems like forever.  Luckily the bus was driven by a woman of great skill, who drove according to the rules and didn't use the freeway as a racetrack, and we arrived safe and sound in the city. We strolled a couple of blocks to the Town Hall, and went straight to the bar to purchase two very nice glasses of red wine.  Then we leaned against a wall, as all the seats in the bar were occupied by music-loving boozers, and watched the assortment of concert goers.  There were no men in top hats, cloaks and silver sticks, nor women in evening dress sporting haughty accents; they were just a mob of pretty regular people from many walks of life, who like good music but don't have to show off about it - although a few of them did wear outlandish hats.

Soon the concert hall began to fill up with expectant music lovers, one of whom didn't choose his seat very well.  We, on the other hand, sat in the dress circle, above the notorious Town Hall posts. 

There was a hush when the conductor slipped onto the stage from an unexpected direction, taking the orchestra by surprise. We all applauded him for his impressive entrance, and then he got the show on the road, with some lively chat about the music we were about to hear. We've included the music menu for those who are interested - and who wouldn't be?  This concert was called 'Classics Unwrapped' and the conductor did indeed unwrap each piece before playing it, telling us with great humour, what it was all about and which bits to particularly listen for, like the soft quivering of the violins in the night, or the sound of an oboe announcing sunrise. It was an exceptionally enjoyable concert, only lasting for about an hour and a half, leaving us wanting more.  We'll definitely save up our pocket money and go to hear the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra again.

When the show ended, there was quite a queue to get down the stairs, so we went a different way and took an unexpected trip down the fire stairs of the Town Hall, along with about 10 other adventurous patrons.  We had to go down so many steps, we couldn't believe we had taken that many steps up, and we must be heading down into the bowels of the earth.  Some bright spark said it was like the Poseidon Adventure in reverse. 

Eventually we found ourselves in a side street, got our bearings and started looking for a cup of coffee, as we had some time to kill before the next bus to Mt Barker would come along. But all the coffee shops we passed were closed (after all, it was about 8pm on a wintry Wednesday night in sleepy old Adelaide - what did we expect?).  So we went into the first bar we came across, for another glass of red wine.  It was a tiny place called Harry's Bar with lots of mirrors everywhere to trick us into thinking it was bigger, with more people.  And there were no chairs, just uncomfortably high stools - but Tony had to go to the loo, so we went in anyway.  

Linda ordered some wine that obviously hadn't been out of the bath for very long, while Tony went through a door in the back, looking for the loo. When he came out of the rather miserable toilet, he found all doors locked tight except one, and it didn't lead back to the bar. He spent some trepidatious time creeping along dark and dirty corridors, while Linda sat in the bar wondering where on earth he was - little did she know that he was wondering the same thing.  Eventually he found himself out in the street, half a block away. He ran back into the bar, found Linda with her back to the door and hugged her from behind.  For a second there, Linda thought some desperate drunk had grabbed her, and she prepared to give him the elbow, but then she saw, thanks to the mirrors, that it was her darling husband, all distressed from his rather traumatic visit to the loo.

After drinking as much of the terrible wine as we could stand, we went outside to wait for the bus, amongst the non-bustling Wednesday nightlife of Adelaide. On the bus, which we thought was suprisingly crowded for the time of night, but what do we know, we got talking to two other concert goers who sat behind us.  We had seen them on the bus on the way into town, when we were behind them (you can see the backs of their heads in the first picture, isn't that exciting?), but never guessed they were classical music lovers.  Turns out that when they're not mucking out their barn, they go to just about every concert that comes along, day or night, and have done heaps of traveling around the world too. Never judge a book by its baseball cap or its Australian accent. But do go and listen to some classical music now and then.