Gotcha!

Had some fun producing this week's paper, as you can see....


The Front Page

Last week, we, and a local fraud investigator, Bruce Dwyer, aka Minder, offered a reward for information leading to the whereabouts (as they say) of a bloke who who'd charged kids $125 for a soccer clinic, only to cancel the clinic and then disappear. We also revealed (how easy it is to slip back into the old phrases) that he had a conviction for supplying drugs. Within 24 hours, several former and vengeful girlfriends had called, one of whom dobbed him in, and he was promptly arrested for failing to comply with a weekend detention order.

Not only that, but a local businessman and soccer coach decided to organise a replacement clinic for the disappointed kids. So the front page was great fun. We also found out the con man was a drug addict. Now, if only I'd been working there next week...wait....it's coming....yes...SOCCER SCAM LOVE RAT IN COLD TURKEY CELL HELL...yes, that'll do nicely.

Sitting Pigeon

More from our bowls correspondent, Bill Lush (see post below ). After hearing about his shark-fishing exploits, I asked him, foolishly perhaps, if he'd been involved in any other sports. "Oh yes," he replied. "I was a very good shot."

Apparently, back in the good old, no-nonsense days when you didn't have to make do with clay pigeons and could shoot real ones instead, Bill was tieing for first place in a big cup competition. It all came down to the last shot but when the trap opened, the pigeon didn't fly out (well, who could blame it?). Bill explained that in those circumstances, you could either ask for another trap to be set or for the recalcitrant to be coaxed from its hiding place. Bill chose the latter.

"And d'you know," he said, "this little red pigeon came out of the trap and walked off along the ground." He paused, looking vaguely sentimental. "So I shot it and won the cup."

With that, he donned his smart straw hat, tapped his walking stick on the floor and was gone.

A Pointer or Two

Had a visit at my temporary desk at the Independent from the nonagenarian bowls correspondent, Bill Lush, delivering his column On The Jack. A former journalist and, apparently, many other things besides, it's always a pleasure to see him.

He sat down in the spare, grubby chair and asked me if I'd ever tried bowls. I said, no, and that I'd just taken up surfing. He looked very serious. "Mmmmm," he said, propping his chin on his walking stick. "Given any thought to White Pointers?" These, of course, are sharks and Bill then regaled me with his many shark experiences from when he lived in Tasmania.

In the game-fishing anecdotes, the sharks came off worse but he also told me about the scientist studying seals he took out to a colony in his boat. She ignored his warnings about local sharks and insisted on donning diving gear and going over the side. He brought the boat back alone. His thesis is that anyone, surfer or diver, who goes in the water looking remotely like a seal should expect to be eaten. "It's not the sharks' fault," he said. "And they always spit you out when they realise they've made a mistake. Anyway, if you change your mind about bowls, come down the club and have a roll sometime."

Settling In...

Beginning to get the hang of Sandy Beach. As we suspected, it's less flashy than Diggers and has more of the air of one of those small, slightly seedy and deliberately unpolished Normandy seaside towns, minus, unfortunately, the boulangerie. Perhaps there's an opening there.

Mornings still see the trek to the beach, but it's much less trendy, less an aggressive lifestyle choice to be flaunted, and more of simple pleasure. End of the afternoon, everyone, young, old and middling, goes down to the sea, to walk, swim, surf or body-board. But "everyone" doesn't equate to a great many people so there's acres of room.

Most people wander down in their cozzies with a towel over their shoulder. Small, black Speedos seem to be the garment of choice for gentlemen of a certain age and figure, which is a bit of drawback, but they seem to be past caring. I don't think they're trying to make a fashion statement. The surf is good for beginners and I'm looking forward to getting my own board to sample it. For the record, I've progressed to a hard board, as opposed to a learner's soft board, and I'm told I'm ready to go out the back. This is very exciting, though the estate agent who sold us our house did confess to me that he had to be rescued at Diggers after paddling out on the rip and, well, failing to get out of the rip and heading off for New Zealand until the lifeguards caught up with him. So excitement needs to be tempered with caution.

As for the house itself, we have a vigorous type of grass which is keeping the new motor-mower fully occupied, and the ceiling fan in the bedroom is a boon on hot nights. Unlike those I've lain under in India and Pakistan, it doesn't threaten to fall from the ceiling, carving chunks out of your sweating flash, thus keeping you wide awake despite its cooling effect. Shelves for books, LPs and CDs have been commissioned from surfer/carpenter Matt from San Diego who lives on another beach down the coast.

Unfortunately, in many ways, I have to go back to work on the Independent for two weeks. But the Pacific Ocean will still be there, glittering in the sun, when we drive over the rise at the end of our road every evening on our way home.

Shark News

I know some of you like news about the deadly wildlife so you'll be glad to hear that three bronze whaler sharks were sighted right in the harbour the other day. One was reported to be 12 foot long.

This is a bit alarming as there's lots of sailing and windsurfing in the harbour and, because it's relatively surf-free, Jetty Beach is popular for swimming. Niece-to-be Hannah and the rest of her Nippers life-saving group were among those to leave the water.

Moved....

Well, it all went very smoothly. Apart, that is, from being locked out on the day we took possession. Somehow, when the estate agent gave me two remote control fobs for the garage and no keys, I felt that it wasn't going to be plain sailing and, sure enough the connecting door to the house was locked.

Luckily, we didn't have three perspiring removal men and all our possessions waiting in the road while the locksmith was summoned (by the vendor who also paid the call-out bill) as we'd always planned to move in the following day. And boy, did they sweat. Hard work in this climate. The vendor also left us a goldfish, which is still alive.

Anyway, everything inside the house was fine, including the keys. There's been more perspiring, as various boxes are lugged around and lugged back again when they prove to be the wrong box, or the right box in the wrong place, obviously. It's not me who decides these things for the most part.

One of the first jobs was to cut the vast lawns, front and rear. We are now the possessers of a motor mower (four-stroke, 18" cut, for those obsessed with such things) and a whipper-snipper (a strimmer in this neck of the woods).

Since I started writing this, two people have wandered past with surf boards and one with a spear gun. I shall head to the beach myself shortly.