Jaynee has decided that snails aren't going to have all the fun; a caravan is just the thing for both visitors to Green Gully and trips out and about.. She checks out ebay, and even goes so far as to visit a couple of cheapies in Bendigo, but they're really a bit too "could be a satisfying DIY project"-ish. Still, at least she now knows what you get for $2K, and armed with this extensive research, puts a bid in on a caravan which is in Officer (yes, that's the name of a town), which is way out the other (Eastern) side of Melbourne, and therefore too far to go and have a look. Then she settles down to await the outcome of the auction a week hence.
Meanwhile, there are native orchids blooming at Green Gully - tiny little pretty yellow spotted jobs:
("Curses, I've been spotted". "Take off that leopard skin, Neddy." "So that's why I'm spotted.") Guess what its called?
Not to be outdone, David is busy growing things, too. Well, fermenting... that counts, doesn't it?
The veggies have either taken heart from the chook ... errrr, kanga-proof fence, or are feeling a bit ashamed of themselves, 'cos they've put on a bit of a spurt. Mind you, now that they look so attractive, something is somehow managing to lean\fly over the fence and have a bit of a munch, so a bit more chook wire comes into play, in a horizontal sort of fashion. And we now have 10 oak seedlings from the acorns gathered at Kyneton. There will be a patch of Green Gully oaks one day. As seen, a tad more digging has been performed to prepare the next bed for planting. Initially of intercalated sandstone and mudstone with seams of very bloody thick hard quartz, (not a trace of gold anywhere, dammit) then of mulch and compost for a bit of light relief.
Well, guess who won the ebay auction for a 1970's Franklin Arrow caravan? Jaynee picks it up on the way home from a visit to Cape Paterson, and is pretty pleased with its condition. Once its at Green Gully, Greebo, for some perfectly understandable reason (to a cat) decides that its his caravan. So there. He's continually pestering to be let into it, so a catflap is scheduled for fitting, as soon as its cleaned, recarpeted and the beds made. It has its original fridge, which still works on both gas and electricity. 240 and 12 volt lights need a couple of bulbs replaced and a bit of rewiring, but over the next couple of weeks the brake lines are sorted (admittedly a bit of an effort, with new lines being made up and a lot of swearing to free off the stuck drums), new tyres go on, replacements for missing window catches are found and she's ready for her registration check.
Whilst in mechanics mode, Jaynee starts the process of working out what the hell has happened to the Triking's brakes, which packed in on the last run we went on in England before leaving. In fact, I remember distictly that they faded out like the ghost of Christmas Past just as we were coming into Burwash, and we spent half an hour bleeding them in the pub carpark to no avail before driving home very circumspectly indeed. Bleeding, I hear you say? Bleeding annoying, I confirm. It quickly transpires that I'm going to have to take the master cylinders out, 'cos one of them has had a hole in it almost since I bought the Triking (long story, involving an apprentice and a trickily placed engine mounting bolt), and they're both a trifle dampish round the seals. I know how they feel. Wonderful getting old, innit? Can't trust a good sneeze, nor (as David wishes to point out) a fart. But I digress. We move the Triking and Guzzi up from their steel-and-placcy carport to the grown-ups carport by the house and Jaynee gets stuck in. Check out the specialist brake cylinder removal tool:
As we're in vehicle moving mode and it happened to be sitting there begging for exercise, David helps by showing Jaynee that the go-cart's brakes seem to be just fine. David is of the opinion that Jaynee doesn't seem to take this observation as well as she should.
Actually, Jaynee had a go too, and was impressed to discover that it is possible for the human head to be rattled so much that your eyeballs cannot keep up, and the world appears like one of those annoyingly trendily shot yoof tv shows.
Spring is sprung, the grass is ris, and there is no doubt at all about where the birdies is. This is a Superior Wren. We take exception to its name - yes, it looks good, but its a bloody pain in the arse. It flits about as if it owns the place, and takes exception to any other bloody pain in the arse wrens in the immediate vicinty. Even, or should I say especially if the other bloody pain in the arse wren is ts own reflection. This little bugger has been headbutting the office window for days. Doesn't seem to knock any sense into it.
Either it or one of the other bloody pain in the arse wrens who own Green Gully have developed an even more annoying tactic to use against the bloody pain in the arse wrens that live inside the car's wing mirrors. I want you to imagine faint but stirring strains of Dambusters theme tune during this manoeuvre. It flies straight at the wing mirror, then at the last possible moment pulls up vertically, after releasing its payload of bloody pain in the arse wren poo, which makes rather Pro Hart-ish textured streaks along the car door ending in a magnificant splot on the mirror itself. 'Nuff said.
Speaking of poo, David calls our next Green Gully resident the Animated Turd. Unkind, but apposite, one feels.
Bit hard to tell which end's which, isn't it? He trundles about eating daisies and gawd knows what else. Greebie has to be shooed away from him (those jaws are strong) 'cos he's convinced that the A.T. is a cat toy.