Easter Monday

8am. Sam puts on his PS4 to look at the dinosaurs. Buddy is leaping around thinking it is a great game.

“Do something with him, will you?”

I roll a joint, and just as Sam is all set up, lolly-pops in hand, I give him the signal to come out side for a choof. “Bst!”

All I hear is a long audible sigh, long and slow, as the faceless helmet stares in the direction of the, apparently tiny, TV screen. He sighs, but still to this day he has never turned a puff down. He says it is my bad influence, the argument goes on. Sam wants to buy a bugger TV. I don’t want to feel like I live in a cinema, the argument continues. The chatter of life. I’ve always looked at in a way that he who makes me laugh in the process, gets his way. If you amuse me, I am far more likely to change my mind.

It’s cold outside.

Sam is like a mute, animated, cyborg mannequin when I go back inside. Marcel Marceau and 3CPO’s love child, directed Doctor Who style. Half of me expected the Doctor Who theme music, but instead I get silence, with the octagonal clack of plastic, from either his hand controls, or his helmet.

Only Buddy can be heard grumbling bulldog style as he changes positions.


The graphics aren’t good on the new game, it gives Sam vertigo. Mr Return is already laying a plan to return it to the shop.

Take the dog for a walk, so we need a dog walking joint. We go early, before the tourists descend.

We take Buddy to the Fitzroy gardens. There are numerous dogs for him to run up to, assume the bulldog stance, sniff their arse, say hello to the owner, do a sweeping turn and continue following us.

Walking the dog wasn’t enough.

Having been cooped up in the house for the while Easter weekend – it is Monday, you say? – we attacked the side creeper. The side creeper that was blocking the view of the houses built next door, we hacked it down, and hauled it up the back yard like lumberjacks, regardless.

We were exhausted when we’d finished our frenzy of activity. Heading inside without cleaning up.

“That’s you job for tomorrow, to get it cleaned away before… trashed.” Sam looked at me in a daze.

“Before trash…” I could feel my eyebrows rise.

“You only have tomorrow…”

“Are you sure today is Monday?”

“For rubbish.”

"For sure."

We went inside and drank tea, and ate chocolate biscuits.

Sam buys a blackhead remover online. I tell him he hardly has any blackheads. He doesn’t.

Just as the kettle boiled, tea and biscuits is scuppered in favour of lunch.

Then there were complaints about me not having unloaded the dishwasher.


We had vegie and roast turkey, chicken broth with wantons and noodles. Yum. Sam excelled himself.”

“Truthfully, it was all leftovers.”

“You see, that is what I can’t do, look at a pile leftovers and make something edible out of it.

And then afterwards, a post lunch smoke. That quieten down the punters. It was like 3pm Xmas Day.

Just Buddy licking something.

Piano music to drown out Buddy's scratching. Way to go Bud.

He crawls into my lap and rests his head on my left arm. My left thigh when I take my arm back to type.

Sam snores on the couch.

I can see red and orange leaves through the trees in my back yard.