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 Promenade Where the Action Never Stops (Except for Naptime)
Life at The Promenade 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 Promenade, 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, pedaling 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.