Kevin the Kookaburra on the Fence ( written for Pat )
Kevin the kookaburra was the self-appointed neighbourhood watch captain — from his prime position on the back fence. Every morning, there he sat, chest puffed out, laughing like he’d just heard the world’s funniest joke. The truth was, Kevin was the joke — he just didn’t know it.
From his fence post throne, Kevin kept a close eye on everyone. He’d heckle the postie, dive-bomb the magpies (purely for sport), and give the neighbour’s cat, Muffin, a good cackling whenever she tried to look dignified. Muffin pretended not to care, but you could tell Kevin got under her fur — literally, one day, when he tried to nick a bit for nest décor.
Kevin’s daily entertainment peaked around 8 a.m., when old Mrs. Burke came out to water her garden. She’d talk to her plants in the sweetest voice, and Kevin thought it was definitely directed at him. Every “You’re growing beautifully, darling!” was met with a loud “HA HA HA HA!” from the fence, as if he was mocking her botany skills. Mrs. Burke, bless her, would shake her watering can and yell, “Oh, go laugh at someone else, Kevin!” which only made him laugh harder.
One day, however, Kevin’s kingdom was threatened. A rival kookaburra — Ollie — landed on his fence. The air went still. Two puffed-up birds stared each other down like cowboy gunslingers. A tense silence… then, a double burst of laughter erupted, echoing across the suburb. No one knew who won the showdown, but Kevin kept his post. Ollie apparently, was exiled to the neighbour’s shed roof.
And so, Kevin remains — loud, proud, and absolutely convinced he runs the place. He’s the feathery fence-sitter with the best view, the loudest laugh, and the worst timing (especially during Zoom meetings). But really, what’s a morning without Kevin’s cackle echoing through the yard?
He’s not just a kookaburra. He’s the mayor of the fence.
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Larry the Lawn Mower Man
Larry fancied himself the Michelangelo of mowing — every lawn a masterpiece, every blade of grass a brushstroke. The problem was, Michelangelo used a chisel, not a half-broken mower that coughed like a smoker in winter.
Larry’s style was… unique. He didn’t mow in straight lines. No, Larry preferred what he called “creative swirls.” By the time he finished, the lawns looked like crop circles. One lady thought aliens had landed in her front yard.
He never bothered with trimming edges either — said he was “leaving habitat for the butterflies.” The only butterflies living there were the ones fluttering around the weeds taller than the mailbox.
His mower frequently ran out of petrol halfway through the job, leaving perfect half-and-half lawns: one side neat(ish), the other side wild enough to hide small marsupials.
Still, Larry was cheerful. When a customer complained, he’d smile and say, “Don’t worry, mate — grass grows back. Art is forever.”
He’s now booked solid for weeks — mostly because everyone wants to see what he’ll do wrong next.
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Happy Hour each Wednesday at the Sports Hub
Every Wednesday at 3:30 sharp, the locals start drifting into the Sports Hub
By 5 o’clock, the bar is full of regulars staking out their usual spots like seasoned pros. There’s Barry, who claims he only comes for the “raffles,” yet hasn’t gone home without a stubby holder or meat tray in three years. Then there’s Anne, who insists she’s “just having one,” but her “one” somehow turns into two and she is waving the V sign at everyone and smiling….
Last Wednesday’s happy hour was one for the record books. The bartender, Tim, tried out his new cocktail invention — the SH Punch — which tasted suspiciously like fruit juice and jet fuel. After two of those, even the shyest retirees were on the dance floor doing what looked like a cross between line dancing and slow-motion falling.
Things peaked when someone’s false teeth turned up in the tip jar. Nobody owned up, but all the conversation stopped while Peter held them up like a lost-and-found announcement. “Whoever’s missing a smile, please see the bar!” he said, to roaring laughter.
By 7:00, the raffle was over, the dance floor was sticky, and everyone agreed it was “the best happy hour yet.”
Of course, they say that every week at the Sports Hub — and they’ll be back next Wednesday to prove it.
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Chaos at Kookaburra Park
There’s never a dull day at Kookaburra Park — not since Malcolm the Magpie moved in.
Malcolm isn’t your average magpie. While most magpies stick to worms and warbling, Malcolm’s passion is chaos. Every morning, as soon as the first dog walker appears, he perches on the tallest light post, surveys his kingdom, and plots his next act of mischief.
Yesterday’s target was poor old John, who was just trying to enjoy his muffin on his back patio. Malcolm swooped in from behind, snatched the muffin paper, and took off cackling — yes, cackling — while John shouted, “You feathery thief!” and waved his hat like a flag of surrender.
Then came the cyclists. Malcolm loves cyclists. The shiny helmets, the speed, the drama — it’s his version of sport. He circled above like an umpire, then dive-bombed the leader just as they passed the playground. Children cheered. Parents ducked. Malcolm preened his feathers, smug as ever.
By afternoon, the kookaburras were laughing their heads off, the ducks refused to leave the pond, and even the local council ranger gave up trying to reason with him. Malcolm just strutted along the fence, chest puffed out, as if to say, “Kookaburra Park? Please. It’s Magpie Territory now.”
If you visit, bring a hat, guard your lunch, and bow respectfully to King Malcolm — ruler of the skies and certified menace of Kookaburra Park.
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The Village Green Retirement Village Where the Action Never Stops (Except for Naptime)
Life at The Village Green Retirement Home is anything but quiet — unless you count the ten minutes between morning tea and bingo, when everyone nods off in the recliners.
It all started last Tuesday when Doris decided to organise a “fitness class.” The plan was gentle stretches, but things got lively when Harold’s hearing aid picked up a nearby radio station and started blaring Eye of the Tiger. Suddenly, half the room was shadowboxing, and the other half thought there was a break-in.
Meanwhile, Mavis and Stan have been locked in an ongoing rivalry over who can win the most at music bingo. Last week, Stan “accidentally” shouted bingo during Mavis’s win, claiming he saw her “marking ahead.” It escalated into a full investigation by the activities coordinator, Doug, who ruled it a “draw” after both dozed off mid-argument.
Then there’s the great Mobility Scooter Grand Prix — an unofficial event held every Thursday in Stakes Street. Ethel holds the lap record at 55 seconds, though there’s still controversy over whether she used her turbo button (also known as leaning downhill).
By dinner time, everyone’s back in the dining hall, swapping stories like war veterans of the daily drama. Doris sums it up best:
“At The Village Green, every day’s an adventure — we just do ours at a slightly lower speed.
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Dave and the Unicycle Uprising
Dave had always fancied himself a bit of a daredevil — though his track record suggested otherwise. After the drone disaster of 2023 (RIP garden gnome) and the brief but memorable pogo stick incident of 2024, his friends assumed he’d learned his lesson. But then Dave rolled up one sunny morning, beaming like a kid at Christmas, astride a brand new unicycle.
“Eco-friendly, space-saving, and great for core strength,” he announced proudly, wobbling slightly.
The neighbours of house 130 — coffee in hand, dogs on leads — gathered to watch. They loved a good Dave show.
“Have you ridden one before?” asked Karon from next door.
“Only in theory,” said Dave confidently, gripping the letterbox for support.
He launched off with a mighty push, pedalling madly. For a glorious five seconds, he looked almost majestic — like a circus performer who’d missed his calling. Then reality set in. His arms began windmilling, legs flailing, and the unicycle took on a mind of its own.
He shot past Mrs Page’s hydrangeas (“Not the flowers again!” she shrieked), veered toward the recycling bins, and somehow managed to bounce off a wheelie bin with the grace of a confused kangaroo.
The unicycle, perhaps seeking freedom, rolled itself elegantly into the gutter while Dave landed in a bush, legs sticking out like a pair of misplaced tongs.
“You alright, mate?” called Karon, trying not to laugh.
“Perfectly fine!” Dave’s voice floated out of the shrubbery. “Just… testing the suspension.”
Ten minutes later, scratched but undeterred, Dave climbed back on. “Second time’s the charm!” he declared.
The unicycle wobbled, tilted, and — in what could only be described as poetic rebellion — rolled him gently but firmly back into the same bush.
And so, the neighbourhood now refers to that spot as Dave’s Corner — where both pride and pedals go to die.
But Dave swears he’ll master it. “Once I get my balance right,” he says, “I’ll ride to the shops!”
The shop’s three kilometres away. They’re still waiting.
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Michael H and the Great Embroidery Escapade
It all started one quiet Tuesday when Michael H decided that what his life truly needed was floral tea towels. Armed with an embroidery machine, a YouTube tutorial, and dangerously high confidence, he set out to become the Michelangelo of thread.
At first, things went well. The machine hummed along obediently, stitching out a neat little daisy. But then, Michael decided to “improvise.” He loaded a new design — a majestic cockatoo — and hit start. The machine began to clatter and spin like it was launching into orbit. Thread spooled across the table, bobbins rattled like maracas, and the cockatoo slowly morphed into something that looked suspiciously like a chicken wearing a wig.
Michael tried to stop it, but instead managed to embroider part of his shirt sleeve to the tea towel. In his panic, he yanked — sending the machine, tea towel, and one very surprised Michael tumbling to the floor in a flurry of tangled thread.
By the time he freed himself, the design was complete — a proud bird with one leg, three eyes, and the personality of a Picasso painting. Michael, undeterred, looked at his masterpiece and declared, “Modern art!”
Now, his tea towels are legendary around the community. Not because they’re beautiful, but because each one tells a story — of bravery, confusion, and one man’s ongoing battle with his embroidery machine.
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Magazines in Waiting
In a small, sun-washed waiting room, a stack of glossy magazines once sat like proud hosts, fanned neatly across a low wooden table. Their pages were full of color and promise—advice for better living, tales from faraway places, puzzles waiting to be solved. For years, they were the room’s quiet entertainers, gently whispering stories to anyone willing to flip through their crisp or dog-eared pages.
But time passed, and the ritual changed.
Now, whenever the door chimed and someone stepped inside, the magazines watched from their table as hands drifted not toward them but into pockets and bags. A small rectangle would appear, glowing with a private world. Instead of the soft rustle of paper, there was the quiet tapping of thumbs and the inaudible pull of endless scrolling.
The magazines tried to stay hopeful. They straightened their creases, showed off their brightest covers, even let their corners curl like a friendly wave. But the glow of the small rectangles outshone them. People no longer waited with time; they waited against it, filling every moment with little bursts of distraction. The stories printed on paper felt too still, too slow, too patient.
On quieter days, a beam of sunlight would fall across the table, warming the magazines as if reminding them that they once mattered greatly. Occasionally, an elderly visitor would take one, flip a few pages, and smile at the familiar feel—yet even this small mercy grew rarer.
Still, the magazines remained. They weren’t bitter; paper rarely is. They simply existed with a kind of gentle dignity, knowing that once they had been companions, guides, and small windows into larger worlds. Now they watched as people hunched over shimmering screens, faces lit by artificial light instead of the soft reflection of ink.
And though their pages turned less and less, the magazines stayed ready—quietly waiting in the waiting room.
Even if no one else was.
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Security Guard
The security guard sat on his tall stool near the revolving glass doors, a polished badge catching the overhead lights every time he shifted. The morning rush had passed hours ago, and the bank had fallen into its usual mid-day lull—quiet enough to hear the hum of the air vents, slow enough to make minutes stretch into elastic.
He tapped his foot. Then stopped. Then tapped again.
From his vantage point, he could see everything: the neat rows of teller counters, the potted plants that never seemed to grow, the clock that ticked with unhurried confidence. He’d memorised it all. Every poster. Every smudge on the marble floor. Every squeak the door made when someone came in.
Some days he imagined wild scenarios just to stay entertained—mysterious characters slipping in with coded messages, elaborate heists that only he could thwart, heroic moments where he’d leap over the velvet ropes like an action-movie protagonist. But no such characters ever appeared. Just ordinary people, shuffling in with deposits, questions, and the occasional confused sigh.
A woman at a desk yawned. He yawned back. They shared a look of mutual boredom.
He tried to stand for a while, arms folded behind his back in a posture of official vigilance, but his knees reminded him that the stool was a friend, not a foe. Sitting again, he watched a tiny dust mote drift lazily through a beam of sunlight. It became the highlight of his afternoon.
Then, finally, something happened.
A small child marched boldly up to him, clutching a toy car. The kid looked at him with the seriousness of a tiny general and asked, “Do you guard things because you’re really strong?”
The guard blinked. Then smiled—a slow, genuine smile he hadn’t used in hours.
“Of course,” he said, leaning down conspiratorially. “Strong as a mountain.”
The child gasped in admiration, saluted in approval, and ran back to a parent waiting in line.
The guard straightened a little, pride warming what boredom had cooled. The bank fell quiet again, but the silence felt softer now, almost companionable.
Maybe nothing dramatic would happen today.
But at least someone thought he was a mountain.
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The Village Green Spy
At the Village Green Retirement Village, the Social Committee had a problem.
A mystery problem.
Chairs were going missing from the Sports Hub, biscuits were disappearing faster than they could be unpacked, and someone had been relocating the community gnome so often he was starting to develop motion sickness. Secret meetings in the BBQ area by some residents.
The Committee needed answers.
Operation: Sneaky Senior
They recruited a resident to act as an undercover spy, given an official title and a mission so dramatic it required at least two naps per day to cope with the excitement.
Code Name “The Whispering Walker”
This agent pretended to stroll around with a wheelie walker but had actually installed a periscope inside the basket.
Unfortunately, every time he popped it up, people thought it was a new type of bingo prize and chased her.
She blended into knitting groups, eavesdropping while pretending to make scarves.
Sadly, she forgot she was undercover and just ended up teaching three classes on how to purl.
Tasked with quietly patrolling the grounds…
…until she hit the wrong button on her scooter and zoomed past the BBQ area at 14 km/h, screaming,
“THIS IS NOT STEALTH MODE!”
🔎 The Investigation Deepens
For a whole week, the She collected “top secret intelligence,” such as:
“Edna’s cat looks suspicious.”
“The gnome moved again.”
“Someone dropped a biscuit crumb near Unit 9.”
“Claude the Crow is probably involved.”
Finally, the Social Committee met to reveal the findings.
The Committee Chair cleared his throat dramatically.
“After a thorough and extremely overcomplicated investigation,” he declared, “we have discovered the culprit.”
The room fell silent.
“It was,” she paused for effect, “the new maintenance trolley.”
Turns out, whenever the maintenance man wheeled it through the Sports Hub, it bumped the chairs, pushed the biscuit tins, and knocked the gnome over.
The social committee was stunned.
Their dramatic spy operation had been undone by a squeaky wheel and poor steering.
Residents still talk about Operation: Sneaky Seniors, mostly because the spy keeps accidentally telling people they were the spy.
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