Ok, so for those not familiar, a little pop culture reference is probably a good place to start:
Daisy Dukes are form-fitting denim short shorts first popularized by actress Catherine Bach in the late 1970s. Bach played the role of Daisy Duke, the beautiful cousin of lead characters Bo and Luke Duke in the television series Dukes of Hazzard. Daisy Duke routinely appeared in a pair of cut-off denim jeans fashioned into shorts, along with other tailored hot pants and short skirts. These skimpy costumes served primarily to show off Bach's well-toned legs, which were rumored to be insured for at least one million US Dollars.
If you’re not sure what I am on about, then google, it. Google it carefully though and don’t say you weren’t warned!
Right with that out of the way, the next point of interest is that I was at the Royal Adelaide show yesterday. Quite possibly worth a post of its own, but regardless of that fact, the inspiration for the following.
If you’re in Alberta, think Calgary Stampede, if you’re in Elizabeth, think Mum probably wore these.
Regardless of where you live, consider the following theory:
If x = the width of one leg of your daisy dukes and y = the length of your daisy dukes (waistband to bottom of the leg), then if x>y, quite simply put, you probably shouldn’t be wearing them.
Sep 3, 2011
Aug 30, 2011
The Hidden Cost of Canada
At the time that you set off on a little adventure to the other side of the world for a couple of years, you understand that there’s going to be some sacrifices. You also understand that some of those things are readily identifiable. The absence of family and friends, departure from sporting clubs, changes of schools amongst what is a much longer list.
You also understand that there’s going to be hidden costs that can’t be predicted when you return and its also understood that they won’t all be immediately apparent.
Whilst we were in Canada, we tried to keep the boys in touch with cricket a little bit by occasionally getting out in the park and entertaining the locals with our crazy antics. Michael and Thomas were the two most keen to play, but then that was true before we left as well.
Michael was very excited when we returned to be able to finally take up cricket again. Unfortunately a couple of things changed in his absence. With the age progression that he went through the game changed. The ball went from a semi hard ball to a true cricket ball complete with all the padding that accompanies it. The pitch stretched out to a full length, taking away some of the menace from his bowling as he had to loop it a little more to get it to a decent length.
Even more telling, he went from being of average height to seemingly a foot shorter than most of his contemporaries. That foot proved to quite possibly be the single most telling fact as when he went in to bat, the ball was harder, coming faster and often, bouncing up around the rib cage of a reasonable length. It meant that when he went in to bat he felt incompetent and with his bowling not being as threatening, he was more often than not bowling fourth change or so and hence fielding whilst only being rewarded with 2 overs when the captain thought he could afford it.
It’s meant that he’s now declared that he no longer wants to play cricket. I completely understand, but it rips out a little piece of my heart. The hardest thing for me is not so much that he doesn’t want to play cricket, its that by playing soccer all year round in Canada, he’s been limited in his exposure to other sports. I don’t really mind what he chooses to play, I just really really want him outside and exercising and deriving all the benefits that come from working with a team to achieve a goal and simply socialising with ones peers outside of the immediate school environment.
For now, all we can do is encourage his participation and offer what ever support he needs when he decides to go down a new path.
You also understand that there’s going to be hidden costs that can’t be predicted when you return and its also understood that they won’t all be immediately apparent.
Whilst we were in Canada, we tried to keep the boys in touch with cricket a little bit by occasionally getting out in the park and entertaining the locals with our crazy antics. Michael and Thomas were the two most keen to play, but then that was true before we left as well.
Michael was very excited when we returned to be able to finally take up cricket again. Unfortunately a couple of things changed in his absence. With the age progression that he went through the game changed. The ball went from a semi hard ball to a true cricket ball complete with all the padding that accompanies it. The pitch stretched out to a full length, taking away some of the menace from his bowling as he had to loop it a little more to get it to a decent length.
Even more telling, he went from being of average height to seemingly a foot shorter than most of his contemporaries. That foot proved to quite possibly be the single most telling fact as when he went in to bat, the ball was harder, coming faster and often, bouncing up around the rib cage of a reasonable length. It meant that when he went in to bat he felt incompetent and with his bowling not being as threatening, he was more often than not bowling fourth change or so and hence fielding whilst only being rewarded with 2 overs when the captain thought he could afford it.
It’s meant that he’s now declared that he no longer wants to play cricket. I completely understand, but it rips out a little piece of my heart. The hardest thing for me is not so much that he doesn’t want to play cricket, its that by playing soccer all year round in Canada, he’s been limited in his exposure to other sports. I don’t really mind what he chooses to play, I just really really want him outside and exercising and deriving all the benefits that come from working with a team to achieve a goal and simply socialising with ones peers outside of the immediate school environment.
For now, all we can do is encourage his participation and offer what ever support he needs when he decides to go down a new path.
Aug 22, 2011
Three Chooks Forward, Two Chooks Back
Last night I came home to be told that we had three new chickens; that and the fact that there had been something of a disaster. I wasn’t quite sure exactly what the disaster was likely to be and all sorts of things went through my mind not even related to the chickens.
It turned out that it was actually chicken related. When I put the chicken pen together, I put an outdoor roost in place as I’d read somewhere that the chickens liked that but that it should be lower than the inside roost. It was about a foot off the ground, which happened to put it about 3 feet below the top of the fence. Apparently when Caroline went in to introduce the three new chickens, Breakfast Lunch and Dinner took various levels of offence which resulted in two of them leaping first to the outdoor roost and subsequently they flapped their way to the fence.
Caroline had Thomas with her and sent him running around to try and scare them back to our side and home where they belonged. Thomas, doing the right thing, rather than run straight around, went to the door to ask permission. By the time that he go there, things had progressed and one of the chickens not only jumped the fence between our properties, but also managed to get over the fence out the back of the neighbours as well. That would be the house with the pool. Of course, this is the same house that also has a dog.
Caroline and Thomas jumped in the car and raced around to the next street to see if there was any chance of a rescue. Caroline sent Thomas in whilst she waited out the front, worried that someone might think that she was trying to break in seeing that no one was home.
Thomas came back after a bit of reconnaissance and shook his head.
“Is it dead?” Caroline asked. Thomas just nodded. “How did you know?” she asked. Apparently it had something to do with the fact that it wasn’t moving at all and there was a dog standing over it. Thomas said that he did take an extra step or two, but the dog started to take a bit more interest in him that he thought was desirable and at the point that it moved toward him he gave the chicken up for dead and high tailed it out of there. For reference, it was in fact Dinner.
The following day after having heard this story I came home and went out the back to check on the chickens after work and was just ever so slightly surprised when one of the newbies was gawking at me from the roof of the aviary. After a couple of seconds consideration, I whipped around to the neighbours, grabbed a big stick and was sure to scare it back off the aviary and into the safety of the chicken pen. Returning home I then spent the next five minutes chasing the little buggers around the pen until I had them all safely locked up back in the aviary.
Caroline did some research and finally got around to clipping those flight feathers after that episode. Thus, there were five. Three guaranteed females, one suspected female and one suspected Rooster.
The rooster has gone to the farm (literally) leaving us with four. And for the record, we’re still waiting for the first egg!
It turned out that it was actually chicken related. When I put the chicken pen together, I put an outdoor roost in place as I’d read somewhere that the chickens liked that but that it should be lower than the inside roost. It was about a foot off the ground, which happened to put it about 3 feet below the top of the fence. Apparently when Caroline went in to introduce the three new chickens, Breakfast Lunch and Dinner took various levels of offence which resulted in two of them leaping first to the outdoor roost and subsequently they flapped their way to the fence.
Caroline had Thomas with her and sent him running around to try and scare them back to our side and home where they belonged. Thomas, doing the right thing, rather than run straight around, went to the door to ask permission. By the time that he go there, things had progressed and one of the chickens not only jumped the fence between our properties, but also managed to get over the fence out the back of the neighbours as well. That would be the house with the pool. Of course, this is the same house that also has a dog.
Caroline and Thomas jumped in the car and raced around to the next street to see if there was any chance of a rescue. Caroline sent Thomas in whilst she waited out the front, worried that someone might think that she was trying to break in seeing that no one was home.
Thomas came back after a bit of reconnaissance and shook his head.
“Is it dead?” Caroline asked. Thomas just nodded. “How did you know?” she asked. Apparently it had something to do with the fact that it wasn’t moving at all and there was a dog standing over it. Thomas said that he did take an extra step or two, but the dog started to take a bit more interest in him that he thought was desirable and at the point that it moved toward him he gave the chicken up for dead and high tailed it out of there. For reference, it was in fact Dinner.
The following day after having heard this story I came home and went out the back to check on the chickens after work and was just ever so slightly surprised when one of the newbies was gawking at me from the roof of the aviary. After a couple of seconds consideration, I whipped around to the neighbours, grabbed a big stick and was sure to scare it back off the aviary and into the safety of the chicken pen. Returning home I then spent the next five minutes chasing the little buggers around the pen until I had them all safely locked up back in the aviary.
Caroline did some research and finally got around to clipping those flight feathers after that episode. Thus, there were five. Three guaranteed females, one suspected female and one suspected Rooster.
The rooster has gone to the farm (literally) leaving us with four. And for the record, we’re still waiting for the first egg!
Jul 19, 2011
Ménage a Chook
I thought that I’d mentioned the chickens here, but maybe that was over on Facebook. Some time in the last 8 weeks or so we added three chickens to the burgeoning menagerie that is Chateau Temby. Caroline’s wanted them for quite some time and we finally managed to get around to building a coop and fencing etc and even putting some chooks in it in the hope of one day extracting some eggy goodness.
The local kindergarten had them from chicks and we picked them up for free when they were about 6-8 weeks old or so. Two white, one black that I lovingly refer to as Breakfast, lunch and dinner (I’ve got the names for the next two picked out – first comes fried, then Kentucky).
Now the only problem with free chickens is that no one has been able to tell us if we got the sort that will grow up to be hens or the sort that will grow up to be roosters. Not being much of a chicken sexer myself, I’ve opted for the wait and see approach. If it crows, its off to the zoo for dinner (for something lucky) otherwise, if it lays an egg, it stays.
As they grow, we keep looking for signs. No crowing yet, but the two white ones seem to do a lot of posturing and might just have slightly pronounced combs coming up. The black one doesn’t seem to have that development going on and doesn’t quite seem to be doing the posturing.
Every time that one goes out at night to shut them back in the coop, there the three of them are, up on the roost. White, black white. I think we’ve got a couple of roosters.
Ménage a chook.
The local kindergarten had them from chicks and we picked them up for free when they were about 6-8 weeks old or so. Two white, one black that I lovingly refer to as Breakfast, lunch and dinner (I’ve got the names for the next two picked out – first comes fried, then Kentucky).
Now the only problem with free chickens is that no one has been able to tell us if we got the sort that will grow up to be hens or the sort that will grow up to be roosters. Not being much of a chicken sexer myself, I’ve opted for the wait and see approach. If it crows, its off to the zoo for dinner (for something lucky) otherwise, if it lays an egg, it stays.
As they grow, we keep looking for signs. No crowing yet, but the two white ones seem to do a lot of posturing and might just have slightly pronounced combs coming up. The black one doesn’t seem to have that development going on and doesn’t quite seem to be doing the posturing.
Every time that one goes out at night to shut them back in the coop, there the three of them are, up on the roost. White, black white. I think we’ve got a couple of roosters.
Ménage a chook.
Free TV
I’m puzzled. I don’t subscribe to pay TV here in Oz because I figure there’s enough crap for me to watch on the free stuff that I don’t need to pay. Lately though, as I watch free TV I keep seeing this commercial telling me how good free TV is.
I don’t get it.
I mean, what are they trying to do?
If I see the ad, then I am already watching free TV.
If I don’t watch TV, then I’m not going to see it. If they’re trying to attract people that don’t watch TV, they’re using the wrong bloody medium to advertise!
If I watch pay TV, then I’ve already made a decision to pay more than the nothing that I have to to watch what I want and so I’ve already decided that the free content that they’re advertising isn’t good enough for me.
What’s the frickin’ point? It must simply be there to annoy the crap out of me, because that’s the one thing that the ad is successfully doing!
I don’t get it.
I mean, what are they trying to do?
If I see the ad, then I am already watching free TV.
If I don’t watch TV, then I’m not going to see it. If they’re trying to attract people that don’t watch TV, they’re using the wrong bloody medium to advertise!
If I watch pay TV, then I’ve already made a decision to pay more than the nothing that I have to to watch what I want and so I’ve already decided that the free content that they’re advertising isn’t good enough for me.
What’s the frickin’ point? It must simply be there to annoy the crap out of me, because that’s the one thing that the ad is successfully doing!
Dressing in the dark
One of the joys of the combination of winter and school holidays is that I practically get dressed in the dark to avoid waking anyone up too much. This morning I did so and because I was feeling lazy, threw a vest on over an unironed shirt (oh the horror) so that I’d hide the wrinkles.
It wasn’t until about 10am that I looked down at the cuff of my sleeve and noticed what appeared to be white paint. Further inspection confirmed the fact that somehow the old shirt that I’d given to Emily to use as a painting smock had made its way back into my wardrobe and worse, in the dark it had made it onto my back!
It wasn’t until about 10am that I looked down at the cuff of my sleeve and noticed what appeared to be white paint. Further inspection confirmed the fact that somehow the old shirt that I’d given to Emily to use as a painting smock had made its way back into my wardrobe and worse, in the dark it had made it onto my back!
Jun 22, 2011
Bye Bye Grace
I am sad to report that things did not go well for our poor little bunny Grace. The vet tried inducing her to see if that would bring on the contractions and help and the first of the two babies was apparently delivered, but the second was simply too large and little Grace didn’t survive the birth.
I managed to beat Emily home and needless to say when she arrived she came through the door in tears and dissolved into a blubbering mess in my arms. Caroline had hockey, I was trying to cook dinner and then I was told that I would need to go and collect the body. So I whipped out and hid her in the garage so that we could try and get through dinner.
I’d cooked steak, veg and chips and when Emily sat down, she wasn’t prepared to eat the meat because “It reminded her of Grace.” She sat slowly eating her chip, occasionally sobbing, but when it came to the veg, it only took one look at a carrot for her to decide that she wasn’t going to be eating those either.
There was already talk of a replacement bunny and it was interesting (and heart breaking) to watch Emily oscillate between the hope that would come with a new bunny and the devastation that was associated with the loss of the lovely little bunny that had just died.
After dinner we went out into the yard, found a nice spot under the fruit trees where Grace had liked to explore and dug a hole. Emily laid her to rest in the hole herself and then we buried her, said a prayer and marked the spot with a rock and some flowers. The boys were good enough to come out as well and I don’t think there was a dry eye when we quietly went back inside.
The rest of the night was hard, Emily continuing her emotional roller coaster and eventually I had to lay with her in bed to get her off to sleep, letting her talk her way through the issues, hearing her note that she and her brothers would have spent the money for the caesarean, but that Mummy wouldn’t. I had to assure her that I couldn’t spend the money either and that Mummy had had to make a tough decision that she didn’t like and that we’ll both second guess many times even with the sum that was involved.
I did have to laugh though when a little later Emily said, “Imagine if we had thousands of bunnies and had to bury them and when one died you tried to dig a hole and were like, ‘Oh we’ve dug up another bunny, guess we’ll have to try a different spot!”
Eventually she slept and thankfully didn’t wake up during the night. This morning she was philosophical, but still sad of course and asked me to take her out to where Grace was buried so that she could say hello.
I managed to beat Emily home and needless to say when she arrived she came through the door in tears and dissolved into a blubbering mess in my arms. Caroline had hockey, I was trying to cook dinner and then I was told that I would need to go and collect the body. So I whipped out and hid her in the garage so that we could try and get through dinner.
I’d cooked steak, veg and chips and when Emily sat down, she wasn’t prepared to eat the meat because “It reminded her of Grace.” She sat slowly eating her chip, occasionally sobbing, but when it came to the veg, it only took one look at a carrot for her to decide that she wasn’t going to be eating those either.
There was already talk of a replacement bunny and it was interesting (and heart breaking) to watch Emily oscillate between the hope that would come with a new bunny and the devastation that was associated with the loss of the lovely little bunny that had just died.
After dinner we went out into the yard, found a nice spot under the fruit trees where Grace had liked to explore and dug a hole. Emily laid her to rest in the hole herself and then we buried her, said a prayer and marked the spot with a rock and some flowers. The boys were good enough to come out as well and I don’t think there was a dry eye when we quietly went back inside.
The rest of the night was hard, Emily continuing her emotional roller coaster and eventually I had to lay with her in bed to get her off to sleep, letting her talk her way through the issues, hearing her note that she and her brothers would have spent the money for the caesarean, but that Mummy wouldn’t. I had to assure her that I couldn’t spend the money either and that Mummy had had to make a tough decision that she didn’t like and that we’ll both second guess many times even with the sum that was involved.
I did have to laugh though when a little later Emily said, “Imagine if we had thousands of bunnies and had to bury them and when one died you tried to dig a hole and were like, ‘Oh we’ve dug up another bunny, guess we’ll have to try a different spot!”
Eventually she slept and thankfully didn’t wake up during the night. This morning she was philosophical, but still sad of course and asked me to take her out to where Grace was buried so that she could say hello.
Bunny on hold
I think that the last time I mentioned the rabbits that had been added to our family it was because we’d just brought home a female of the species (Grace) and there was speculation about how long it would be before the burgeoning bunny love resulted in the pitter-patter of tiny paws.
We’ve been suspicious for a while now that this mile stone was evident and just a few days ago, things seemed to have been confirmed when young Grace was spied gathering straw from around the hutch and taking it into the darkened area. That is, she was nesting. Days later and there didn’t seem to have been any change though, so we continued to wait.
Today, Caroline called at work to say that there was blood in the cage and that Grace was making funny noises and she wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t know if the rabbit was just in labour or whether she was in trouble and wanted advice on whether there should be a vet involved. It might seem strange to seek advice on whether to involve a vet, but for anyone that’s ever had pets, I’m sure you can understand the dilemma. This particular rabbit cost us about $60. That’s how much you pay to walk in the door at the vet and then if anything needs to be done … hand over your savings.
Clearly though, this was one of those occasions where professional help should be sought out and so despite our experience with Jack the Cat some years earlier (Must try to remember to link that sordid tale) I advised that she should go. To which the question was asked, “What’s the limit?”
Tough call. How much money do you spend to save a rabbit? Even if that rabbit is one of your little princess’ very first pets there has to be a limit. I couldn’t say. I advised that it would be best to go, find out and then make the judgement call when we knew where we stood.
Well, now I know where we stand. Grace is up the duff, there’s a big baby blocking the way and it would appear that she needs, get this, a caesarean.
Which of course leads directly to the question – What would it cost for a dwarf bunny of about 3 months in age to have a caesarean?
Answer: $1200.
Thus, the answer is no. Now I just have to wait to find out what happens next:
Bring the rabbit home and hope for the best? Or
The rabbit get’s put down and one explains the cycle of life to their 8 year old daughter.
Look's like tonight is going to be one of those fabulous character building opportunities.
We’ve been suspicious for a while now that this mile stone was evident and just a few days ago, things seemed to have been confirmed when young Grace was spied gathering straw from around the hutch and taking it into the darkened area. That is, she was nesting. Days later and there didn’t seem to have been any change though, so we continued to wait.
Today, Caroline called at work to say that there was blood in the cage and that Grace was making funny noises and she wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t know if the rabbit was just in labour or whether she was in trouble and wanted advice on whether there should be a vet involved. It might seem strange to seek advice on whether to involve a vet, but for anyone that’s ever had pets, I’m sure you can understand the dilemma. This particular rabbit cost us about $60. That’s how much you pay to walk in the door at the vet and then if anything needs to be done … hand over your savings.
Clearly though, this was one of those occasions where professional help should be sought out and so despite our experience with Jack the Cat some years earlier (Must try to remember to link that sordid tale) I advised that she should go. To which the question was asked, “What’s the limit?”
Tough call. How much money do you spend to save a rabbit? Even if that rabbit is one of your little princess’ very first pets there has to be a limit. I couldn’t say. I advised that it would be best to go, find out and then make the judgement call when we knew where we stood.
Well, now I know where we stand. Grace is up the duff, there’s a big baby blocking the way and it would appear that she needs, get this, a caesarean.
Which of course leads directly to the question – What would it cost for a dwarf bunny of about 3 months in age to have a caesarean?
Answer: $1200.
Thus, the answer is no. Now I just have to wait to find out what happens next:
Bring the rabbit home and hope for the best? Or
The rabbit get’s put down and one explains the cycle of life to their 8 year old daughter.
Look's like tonight is going to be one of those fabulous character building opportunities.
Jun 21, 2011
Thugs
I’ve been playing organised soccer since I was about 8 (yes, a bloody long time ago) and have seen some crazy shit in that time. I’ve been involved in two games that were abandoned, one due to its descent into an all out fight (that I didn’t bother getting involved in) and another because it was only a trial and the opposition were so far from playing within the spirit and rules of the game that our coach called it off early before someone got hurt.
They are the only two times in my career that I can recall not shaking hands with the opposition. This weekend makes it three.
The last couple of games we’ve played, we’ve played some thugs. Guys that don’t particularly go out of the way to stay within the laws of the game and that will take every advantage accorded them when the referee is lax on a rough tackle. I’m kind of getting used to be kicked and pushed and held every time I go near the ball. After all, it’s not tiddly winks and I’ve played some hard games of soccer in my time. Hell, I’ve even hurt some people with some tough tackles, but it’s always been accidental as I’ve always gone for the ball.
This weekend the ball was down the far end of the field, our opposition having cleared it out and I was making my way back to the half way line as the defence pushed us out when someone decided that it would be a useful tactic to come from behind and plant a full-blooded fist into the middle of my back. It fucking hurt. I didn’t see who it was as I dropped to the ground in pain and because it was so far behind the play, no one else saw what happened either. It pissed me off even more than it hurt and it still pisses me off a couple of days later.
This is amateur sport. I don’t get paid to be there but I show up because I enjoy the game. It’s actually the first time I’ve ever really even remotely considered the ‘R’ word (that would be retirement of course) and even then simply because of how much it destroyed my enjoyment of the game. I mean, had I been scoring a heap of goals, or even threatening to, or perhaps been the most outstanding player on the pitch, I could consider it a compliment that someone thought they needed to go that far to take me out of the game. Had I been an utter bastard and previously crash tackled one of their players or something, I could explain it as revenge. The reality is though, I can’t think of a single thing that I did during the preceding 20 or 30 minutes that warranted such an attack.
It was quite simply utterly piss weak and gutless of the fucking wanker that did it; behind play and without provocation and perhaps that is what shits me most of all.
The Pub with no Grub
On the Queen’s birthday weekend, with no sports commitments for once, we decided that we’d drag the caravan and the kids away and go see something other than the inside of our house for a day or so. After much debate we decided to stay in Meningie on Lake Albert. We left reasonably late in the afternoon, and arrived just after sunset, setting up in the fading light before heading into town to find something to eat.
I was looking forward to a good country pub counter meal and was happy when it was actually open as it hadn’t appeared to be when we’d driven past it an hour or so before hand.
At the outset, things looked good. Not a bad menu and 6 choices of kid’s meals as well. It was when we started to order that we became a little suspicious. Sam decided he’d have the mini hot dogs, but they were out. Neither did they have the mini pizzas, nor the chicken satays. By the time half of the kid’s menu had been eliminated, he’d basically given up and settled for a bowl of chips and some garlic bread.
We went to the salad bar whilst we waiting for our food to arrive, but that was a short-lived revelation. They’d run out of bread rolls (more were in the oven) the salad selection was less than desirable and the vegetables … well let’s just say that I didn’t bother.
I think Emily’s food was the first to arrive, a plate of dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. That’s it. No chips, no sauce, nothing; Just a pile of little dinosaurs on a plate.
Sam received his bowl of chips and happily there wasn’t too much wrong to report in that little piece. Michael’s schnitzel was fine and Thomas had a score. The kid’s schnitzel had been delivered as an adult meal. Twice the food, 1/3rd of the price!
My steak arrived next and I have to say there’s nothing quite like splashing out on a nice piece of fillet … and having them serve up over-cooked porterhouse. At least the pepper sauce was ok. Caroline was good enough to complain on my behalf whereas I was at that point already where I was just going to eat, run and never return. Somewhere between my almost finishing my steak and Caroline’s arriving Sam was informed that they didn’t have any garlic bread!
After wondering if Caroline’s steak was still at the abattoir, it finally arrived, resplendent in it’s seafood sauce, though strangely, lacking anything else. Mine came with chips, Caroline’s did not. One wonders if they’d run out. Her fillet was also a porterhouse and whilst she ate it, we listened to the table next to us complain about all the issues that they’d had with their meal to the poor waitress who had to cop all the crap. Apparently there also wasn’t any pavlova.
The kids were keen to stay for dessert, but Caroline and I vetoed, telling them we’d go to the service station and buy them an ice cream, because at least there was a good chance that they wouldn’t have run out! We were probably right, but won’t ever know because it had closed. D’oh.
On the way back to the caravan park we did find somewhere else open (ironically a lot closer as well) and they even did dessert. So we stopped and bought the kids ice cream. A shame that when Sam and Thomas ordered the lime topping that they’d run out though!
So that was our adventurous first meal in Meningie. Suffice to say that for the second night, we went to the supermarket, bought some nice fillet steaks and I cooked them perfectly at the van.
I was looking forward to a good country pub counter meal and was happy when it was actually open as it hadn’t appeared to be when we’d driven past it an hour or so before hand.
At the outset, things looked good. Not a bad menu and 6 choices of kid’s meals as well. It was when we started to order that we became a little suspicious. Sam decided he’d have the mini hot dogs, but they were out. Neither did they have the mini pizzas, nor the chicken satays. By the time half of the kid’s menu had been eliminated, he’d basically given up and settled for a bowl of chips and some garlic bread.
We went to the salad bar whilst we waiting for our food to arrive, but that was a short-lived revelation. They’d run out of bread rolls (more were in the oven) the salad selection was less than desirable and the vegetables … well let’s just say that I didn’t bother.
I think Emily’s food was the first to arrive, a plate of dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. That’s it. No chips, no sauce, nothing; Just a pile of little dinosaurs on a plate.
Sam received his bowl of chips and happily there wasn’t too much wrong to report in that little piece. Michael’s schnitzel was fine and Thomas had a score. The kid’s schnitzel had been delivered as an adult meal. Twice the food, 1/3rd of the price!
My steak arrived next and I have to say there’s nothing quite like splashing out on a nice piece of fillet … and having them serve up over-cooked porterhouse. At least the pepper sauce was ok. Caroline was good enough to complain on my behalf whereas I was at that point already where I was just going to eat, run and never return. Somewhere between my almost finishing my steak and Caroline’s arriving Sam was informed that they didn’t have any garlic bread!
After wondering if Caroline’s steak was still at the abattoir, it finally arrived, resplendent in it’s seafood sauce, though strangely, lacking anything else. Mine came with chips, Caroline’s did not. One wonders if they’d run out. Her fillet was also a porterhouse and whilst she ate it, we listened to the table next to us complain about all the issues that they’d had with their meal to the poor waitress who had to cop all the crap. Apparently there also wasn’t any pavlova.
The kids were keen to stay for dessert, but Caroline and I vetoed, telling them we’d go to the service station and buy them an ice cream, because at least there was a good chance that they wouldn’t have run out! We were probably right, but won’t ever know because it had closed. D’oh.
On the way back to the caravan park we did find somewhere else open (ironically a lot closer as well) and they even did dessert. So we stopped and bought the kids ice cream. A shame that when Sam and Thomas ordered the lime topping that they’d run out though!
So that was our adventurous first meal in Meningie. Suffice to say that for the second night, we went to the supermarket, bought some nice fillet steaks and I cooked them perfectly at the van.
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