At 77 Crescent Avenue, where the mailman often paused just to sniff the air, Geoff and Edwina ran the sweetest operation in town—literally. Their little cottage sat behind a garden that buzzed like a small airport, thanks to the ten hive boxes arranged neatly along the back fence.
Every morning, Geoff shuffled out in his gumboots, lifting the lid of a hive like he was opening a treasure chest. “Morning, ladies,” he’d say to the bees, who tolerated him with the mild impatience of workers who already knew what they were doing.
Edwina, meanwhile, handled the bottling with the precision of a jeweller. If a single drop of honey dared escape her spoon, she’d mutter, “Not on my watch,” and whip it back in before gravity could even react.
Their honey—labelled Crescent Gold—became a local sensation. At $10 a jar, it was an absolute bargain, and people swore it cured everything from bad moods to stiff knees. One elderly neighbour even claimed it restored her sense of rhythm, though her attempt to demonstrate this during Thursday’s chair yoga class was politely ignored.
On Saturdays, the footpath outside 77 Crescent Avenue transformed into a miniature marketplace. A chalkboard read:
HONEY $10 — PROBABLY THE BEST IN THE UNIVERSE
(Geoff added the second line. Edwina rolled her eyes but left it there.)
People lined up, partly for the honey and partly for the entertainment. Geoff loved giving “bee facts”—some true, some… aspirational.
“Did you know,” he’d say proudly, “that bees can remember human faces?”
“They can’t,” Edwina would correct, handing over a jar.
“They might,” Geoff insisted. “We don’t know their full potential.”
One an especially busy Saturday, a customer pointed out a small cluster of bees calmly sitting on Geoff’s shoulder like tiny supervisors.
“Oh yes,” he said nonchalantly. “These girls come with me everywhere. Loyalty. That’s what happens when you treat them well.”
Edwina gave him a sideways look. “Geoff, you spilt honey on yourself again.”
The bees buzzed their agreement.
Despite the chaos, the duo loved their life. The bees were thriving, the neighbours were sugared up and cheerful, and the local café now bragged “Honey from 77 Crescent Avenue” on its menu like it was Michelin-starred.
And every evening, as the sun dipped behind the rooftops and the hives settled into a warm hum, Geoff would put his arm around Edwina and say, “We’ve got the sweetest gig in town.”
And Edwina, holding a still-warm jar of Crescent Gold, would have to agree.
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Heartburn Stars: The Band That Missed a Beat
When the social committee announced the Summer Sounds Talent Night, five neighbours decided it was their time to shine. Thus, Heartburn Stars was born — a band so full of enthusiasm, it almost made up for the lack of rhythm, timing, and basic musical ability.
Trevor was on drums because he owned a set (well, half a set — the hi-hat was a saucepan lid). Denise played keyboard, but only in “demo mode” because it sounded fancier. Ed handled guitar duties, mostly by strumming three chords and hoping no one noticed when he switched keys mid-song.
Wendy took the microphone — not because she could sing, but because she had a microphone. And finally, there was Gary on bass, who spent most of the rehearsal trying to figure out what the little knobs did.
Their big number was an original song titled “Love in the Laundromat.” Unfortunately, the power went out mid-performance, and all that could be heard was Trevor’s saucepan lid clanging in the dark and Wendy’s voice bravely belting, “Baby, spin me round one more time!”
The audience roared with laughter and applause. They thought it was a comedy act. Heartburn Stars took a bow, convinced they were destined for stardom.
Now, they’re booked for every sausage sizzle and community fair within 10 kilometres. Their motto?
“We might miss a beat, but we’ll never miss a gig.”
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The Village Idiot
At the Village Retirement Home, everyone knew when the village idiot arrived—not because they saw him, but because they heard him. His entrance was usually announced by a booming, “HELLOOOO, MY FAVOURITE PEOPLE!” which echoed down the halls like a foghorn in a tiled bathroom.
He considered himself the resident comedian… a title nobody had given him, but one he embraced with the enthusiasm of a toddler who’s discovered pots and pans.
His jokes were legendary—not for their humour, but for their catastrophic lack of it. He’d march into the common room, plant himself in the middle like a misplaced garden gnome, and shout, “WHY DID THE SCARECROW WIN AN AWARD? … BECAUSE HE WAS OUTSTANDING IN HIS FIELD! GET IT? OUT-STAND—”
By this point, the knitting group had usually upgraded from sighing to full eye-rolling cardio.
At bingo night, he was even louder. “NUMBER 22—TWO LITTLE DUCKS! QUACK QUACK!” he’d shout, even though he wasn’t the caller and nobody had asked for sound effects. Last week, he’d added interpretive dance. Nobody has fully recovered.
Yet, despite the groans, complaints, and a petition someone may have drafted behind the scenes, he kept going—marching around, popping into conversations uninvited, loudly telling yet another awful joke about chickens, or socks, or something else that made absolutely no sense.
And strangely… somehow… everyone would miss him when he wasn’t there. The halls felt too quiet. Too normal. Too… sensible.
Because in a place where days could blur together, the village idiot’s terrible jokes and thunderous enthusiasm reminded everyone that sometimes, a good laugh doesn’t need to be good at all—it just needs to be loud.
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The Homewrecker of Hibiscus Lane
Everyone in The Village Retirement Home knew Lorraine Larkins — mostly because she had the loudest laugh, the brightest lipstick, and the uncanny ability to insert herself into absolutely everything.
When Lorraine moved into Hibiscus Lane, the peace and quiet lasted exactly three days. By day four, she’d joined the book club, the gardening group, and the “Widows Who Lunch” — even though she wasn’t technically a widow. She said her husband was “emotionally unavailable and geographically optional.”
But the real drama started when Lorraine “innocently” began offering help to the couple next door — Barry and Maureen. Barry was retired, fond of golf, and even fonder of hearing how “distinguished” he looked in beige. Lorraine made sure to remind him of that daily.
“Barry,” she’d coo over the fence, “no one wears khaki like you. You could be in an ad for lawn fertiliser.”
Maureen wasn’t impressed. “He’s already full of manure,” she muttered.
Before long, Barry was “helping Lorraine with her plumbing” (which apparently involved three trips a week and an entire toolkit). The gossip spread faster than the buffet line on Bingo Night.
Things came to a head at the monthly Village Potluck Dinner. Lorraine turned up wearing Barry’s golf jacket — with his name embroidered on the chest. Maureen spotted it halfway through dessert and declared, “Well, looks like the pavlova isn’t the only thing that’s been whipped around here!”
Barry tried to explain, Lorraine tried to giggle her way out of it, and Maureen stormed out to thunderous applause. The whole room agreed it was the best entertainment the village had seen since the Great Karaoke Meltdown of 2023.
Lorraine has since “taken a break” from The Village Retirement Home social events — though her curtains still twitch suspiciously whenever a new man moves in.
As for Maureen? She’s thriving. She’s started salsa lessons, bought a convertible, and renamed her WhatsApp group “Single & Sassy on Hibiscus Lane.”
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Every Tuesday afternoon at the Village Green Retirement Village, the residents gathered in the hall for bingo—a weekly highlight that teetered somewhere between friendly sport and full-contact competition.
At the front of the room stood the bingo caller, a cheerful figure who treated the job with the seriousness of a game show host and the enthusiasm of someone powered by three cups of instant coffee. The caller wore a bright vest decorated with tiny embroidered bingo balls, a garment that had somehow become part of the village folklore.
With a dramatic tap on the microphone, the caller launched each session like a major sporting event.
“Eyes down!” the voice boomed, sending a ripple of excitement—and mild panic—through the room.
Some residents dabbed their cards with laser focus, tongues poking out in concentration. Others whispered to their neighbours, speculating about who would win, who always won, and who was definitely cheating even if it couldn’t be proven.
The caller kept order with warm but firm authority, pausing occasionally to remind everyone that bingo was a game of chance—not a reason to start a feud, glare at a rival, or blame the caller for “bad vibes.”
Eventually, a triumphant shout of “Bingo!” echoed across the hall. The caller inspected the card with dramatic slowness, building suspense like a seasoned entertainer. After a long pause, the verdict came:
“Confirmed! Another win!”
There were cheers, groans, a few muttered accusations, and someone loudly wondering how many wins it took before a person had to declare bingo earnings to the tax office.
The caller simply smiled and wrapped up the session with the usual sign-off:
“Same time next week. Bring your dabbers—and your patience.”
At Village Green, bingo wasn’t just a pastime.
It was an event. And the caller made sure it stayed that way.
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The Village Green Retirement Village Parkrun: A 5K of Chaos
Every Saturday morning, just after sunrise and just before the first kettle boiled, the Village Green Retirement Village hosted its weekly parkrun—affectionately known by residents as the Park-Walk-Lurch-n-Roll.
The start line was a sight to behold. A colourful crowd of eager participants assembled: walkers with Nordic poles sharp enough to spear a watermelon, joggers in tracksuits last fashionable during the disco era, and one eccentric resident who always turned up in full Tour de France gear despite refusing to ride a bike.
The run director began the pre-race briefing, which went something like:
“Please keep left, don’t run over the ducks, don’t feed the ducks mid-race, and for goodness’ sake, if the pelican shows up again, just go around it.”
The participants nodded wisely, as if any of this was new information.
Three, two, one—GO!
And off they went!
Well… most of them.
Some walkers were still fiddling with their step counters. One runner surged forward heroically, only to stop after ten metres because their shoelace betrayed them. Another attempted to sprint, realised they’d left their hearing aid in ‘concert mode’, and spent the next minute trying to adjust the volume while jogging sideways.
The first kilometre wound through the garden path, where the gardeners were still watering the roses.
Behind them, the pace was more… conversational. Some walkers strolled along comparing biscuit prices, others debated the merits of recliner chairs, and one pair kept stopping to wave at imaginary spectators.
By the fourth kilometre, everyone’s competitive spirit came roaring back—mainly because they could smell the finish-line table where volunteers had laid out iced buns, cordial, and the legendary Village Green Lions Fruitcake.
The final sprint was always the most entertaining moment.
People who had been walking gently suddenly launched forward like startled emus.
At the finish line, the volunteers handed out tokens, mostly to breathless participants pretending they hadn’t just run like maniacs.
“Oh, that? Just a gentle jog,” someone puffed.
“Didn’t even try,” another lied through a coughing fit.
Everyone gathered afterwards for tea, buns, and communal bragging.
But every week, the Village Green residents lined up again—ready to dodge ducks, negotiate pelicans, race for fruitcake, and attempt personal bests in enthusiasm if not speed.
And that, truly, was the magic of the Village Green parkrun.
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The Village Footy Tipping
Every year, the Village Green Retirement crowd took part in the NRL footy tipping competition—an event taken far more seriously than local elections, medical appointments, or the correct pronunciation of “Brisbane.”
The competition ran smoothly… until round one.
It started when someone tipped the Broncos team purely because they liked the colours of the jersey. They won the round. By a lot. This caused widespread outrage, disbelief, and at least three accusations of “witchcraft.”
Another participant claimed to have a secret strategy: his budgies, George & Mildred, chose his tips. This worked brilliantly until they backed a team whose mascot was a cartoon dolphin wearing sunglasses.
The biggest drama erupted mid-season, when two competitors tied for first place. Tensions rose. Eyes narrowed. Passive-aggressive comments were exchanged, such as:
“Nice tips this week… bold choice… VERY bold.”
One resident insisted they had a psychic connection with the players. They would stand in the courtyard, close their eyes, and “feel the energy” before choosing their tips. Their accuracy was terrible, but their commitment was outstanding.
Meanwhile, the competition organiser—armed with a highlighter, clipboard, and the determination of a referee with a vendetta—attempted to keep the peace. This mainly involved confiscating smartphones during arguments and reminding everyone that tipping was meant to be fun.
The grand finale arrived with excitement, snacks, and a level of tension normally seen during State of Origin.
The winner?
The one person who had admitted, openly and without shame, that they didn’t watch footy at all. Usually fell asleep while watching a game.
When they accepted the trophy (a spray-painted plastic cup from the dollar shop), the room erupted in groans, applause, and one muttered, “I can’t believe I lost to someone who thought the Cowboys were from Tasmania.”
The organiser declared the season a success.
The rest vowed revenge next year.
And thus, the Village Green NRL Footy Tipping Competition ended exactly as it always did—
with laughter, protests, and at least one person vowing to “train properly” in the off-season.
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At the Village Green Retirement Resort, most residents spent their mornings tending roses, sipping tea, or arguing politely over whose turn it was on the putting green. But one resident had a very different hobby.
Every night at precisely 11:47 pm, faint scraping noises echoed through the village. By daybreak, a suspicious pile of dirt would appear in one very small garden. At first, neighbours assumed it was an ambitious new veggie patch. Then the ladder appeared. Then the steel door.
Whispers began to circulate.
“It’s a wine cellar,” said one optimistically.
“It’s a root cellar,” said another.
“It’s definitely the end times,” said a third, clutching a bingo card for reassurance.
The resident was soon spotted hauling down canned beans, bottled water, torches, and what appeared to be a lifetime supply of baked beans. When asked what was going on, he simply winked and said, “You can never be too prepared.”
By the end of the week, rumour had it he’d built a fully operational nuclear bunker—complete with ventilation, emergency rations, and a deck of cards for morale. The only giveaway that it wasn’t government-grade was the little sign on the door that read:
“Maximum Occupancy: 2 (No Snorers).”
Now, whenever a thunderstorm rolls in, half the village looks nervously at the sky… and the other half keeps an eye on that tiny garden—just in case the beans run out and negotiations begin. 😄
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Pat at House 63 knew it was going to be one of those days when the first truck arrived at 6 a.m. By 6:05, a second truck pulled in. By 6:10, a third. Her quiet backyard now looked like a construction site for the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
Power tools roared, shovels flew, and someone appeared to be measuring Pat’s lemon tree with great suspicion.
Meanwhile, high on the fence, sat Percy the Possum.
He watched every move with intense fascination. Head tilting. Eyes wide. Tail flicking like a supervisor who forgot his clipboard.
Every time a worker dug a hole, Percy leaned forward. Every time a load of soil was dumped, Percy nodded approvingly. When one bloke dropped his sandwich, Percy nearly fell off the fence with excitement.
By late afternoon, the trucks drove off, leaving behind a stunning new garden bursting with color, fresh plants, and neatly mulched paths. Percy climbed down, wandered through the garden, sniffed every leaf, then looked up at Pat with what could only be described as approval.
That night, Pat glanced out the window to see Percy nibbling happily on a brand-new plant.
She sighed. “Three trucks of workers… and the first customer is a possum.”
From the garden came a very satisfied crunch.
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The Fat Buddha and the Little Lady at the End of the Lane
Every day, the Fat Buddha sat in his usual spot at the start of the lane, belly out, grin wide, looking as though he knew something about everyone who passed by. And maybe… just maybe… he did.
Residents often joked that he was the unofficial security guard of the lane—though unlike most guards, he judged no one and smiled at everyone. Whether it was someone sneaking an extra lamington, someone pretending they hadn’t forgotten bin night again, or someone wearing their slippers to the shops, the Buddha just sat there, quietly watching the parade of human silliness with eternal amusement.
But the one person he watched most closely was the little lady who lived at the very end of the lane.
She was tiny—so tiny that when she stood behind her pot plants she virtually disappeared. Every morning she shuffled down the lane with her little stick-tapping stride, stopping in front of the Buddha like she was checking on him.
She’d pat his belly and say,
“Keep behaving. I’m watching you.”
Then she’d lean in and whisper, “And stop laughing at me when I trip over my own slippers.”
The Buddha of course did not respond. But some swore his grin got a millimetre wider.
The little lady insisted he had opinions.
“He sees everything,” she told the neighbours.
“All the gossip goes through him first.”
She was convinced the Buddha kept notes—mentally, of course—on every resident who tried to sneak past him doing something questionable. And she made it her job to interpret his expression each day.
If his grin looked mischievous:
“Oh dear,” she’d say, “someone’s been up to no good.”
If his belly looked extra jolly in the sun:
“Mm-hmm, someone told a fib this morning.”
If a leaf landed on his head:
“Well, that’s just nature having a joke.”
But one afternoon, as she tottered past carrying her shopping bag, she stopped and stared at him thoughtfully.
“You know,” she said, “I think you wait for me.”
And for the first time ever—so the residents swear—his round stone belly seemed to jiggle, just slightly, like a silent chuckle.
From that day on, she made him part of her daily routine. She gave him updates, told him off, asked for advice he would never give, and waved at him from her front gate.
And every morning, and every evening, the Fat Buddha sat there watching her—the tiny lady at the end of the lane—like she was his favourite part of the day’s parade.
Some statues guard gates.
Some guard gardens.
But this Fat Buddha?
He guarded the lane…
and her.
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