A gentle breeze carried the scent of sweet spring water as well as the sound of rustling leaves. With the hope that our search was over, Dad and I picked up speed passing the plodding young men.
Even before we started striking up the slope of Mount Woodroffe, our varying levels of agility and skill at mountain climbing, separated the young from the older. Richard, Phillip and Ashleigh youthful men at the peak of their fitness, lead the way. The older men, lagged far behind, taking frequent rests, the first being a hundred metres from the starting point.Read more "The Wonder of Mt Woodroffe"
‘Bitte! Bitte!’ Amie pleaded. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’
Zwar raised his hand. ‘I won’t.’
She backed against the wardrobe.
‘Believe me.’ Naturally he wouldn’t harm her. A pretty looking fraulein like her?
‘You know, you really don’t speak well, do you Lee-Anne, not very ladylike, not ladylike at all,’ Tony sneered.
‘See what I mean? See what I mean?’
By this time, we’d reached a waterhole. Scattered along the edges of the pool, our old friends, the paddy melons.
I looked through Tony’s broad curly topped head, avoiding his spectacle-framed eyes. ‘What’s wrong with ‘what’?’
‘You should say ‘I beg your pardon’.’ Tony leaned forward and stabbed a finger in the air. ‘Haven’t you learnt anything on this trip? How will you get anywhere in life with gutter manners like you’ve got?’
‘I—’ slowly I bent down, ‘beg—’ and picked up a melon ‘your—’ and then straightened up, ‘pardon?’ Then I positioned my missile ready to throw at this self-proposed teacher of elocution and manners.
I took aim.
So how do we manage this stifling heat? These days it’s about cranking up the refrigerated air conditioners, getting on with our busy lives of work or leisure in air-conditioned comfort while being concerned for our poor relations who have no relief from the heat.Read more "Daily Prompt: Stifle"
At 7.15am I peeled off my sleeping bag, pulled on my jeans, windcheater and anorak to fend off the early-morning cold, and then shuffled through the annex of our tent where our boys slept.
Wait a minute…one’s missing.
Shouting echoed across the road.
Frieda placed her loads down, and then ducked behind the acacia bush. She watched through the lattice of leaves and listened. Mike, the father of the young family next door to Ned, raged at a pot-bellied man.
Frieda frowned. ‘Poor Mike, still in his pyjamas. Hmm, he doesn’t look happy. Wonder what Pot-belly did to wake him up?’