Village Green Biographer
Mr Squibbles was the unofficial, self-appointed “Village Green Biographer,” a title he awarded himself after writing exactly one story that made two residents laugh and one choke on a Scotch Finger. From that moment on, he took it as a sign that destiny had chosen him—well, destiny or the lack of anything better on TV.
Each morning, Mr Squibbles marched around the retirement village with his notebook tucked under his arm like a detective sniffing out scandal. To the untrained eye, he looked like a harmless old gent wandering about. To the residents, however, he was a one-man rumour factory with a pen that moved faster than a mobility scooter with new batteries.
He wrote stories about everyone.
The lady who watered her fake plants every day? He wrote a dramatic thriller titled The Woman Who Grew Nothing.
The chap who snored during yoga? That became the sci-fi epic Attack of the Earthquake Man.
And the bloke who always complained that “the soup tasted funny”? Mr Squibbles proudly published The Broth Conspiracy—a tense political drama featuring too much paprika.
But his masterpiece arrived one sunny Tuesday. After spotting three residents gossiping at the mailboxes, Mr Squibbles rushed home and wrote a 14-chapter saga called The Mailbox Mafia. It included secret codes, hidden biscuits, and an underground pigeon-based communication network.
The residents rolled their eyes, muttered “Oh, Squibbles…” and carried on. But secretly, they all waited to see who he’d write about next. Because while his stories were ridiculous, exaggerated, and occasionally libellous… they were also hilarious.
And so Mr Squibbles continued his rounds, notebook ready, convinced that he was chronicling the great drama of Village Green.
The residents decided to let him. After all, it was cheaper than Netflix and far more entertaining.
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Coven of Witches Weekly Meeting
Every Sunday at precisely 3:30pm — a peculiar gathering took place at Kookaburra Park.
A coven of witches, dressed in robes that looked suspiciously like repurposed dressing gowns, would shuffle in carrying mismatched cauldrons, half-empty spice jars, and the occasional runaway cat that definitely did not want to be there.
Their goal each week?
Try to cast at least one successful spell before the kookaburras started laughing at them.
One Sunday, after a particularly chaotic attempt at a “Summon Peace and Harmony” spell (which only summoned a cranky Percy the Possum demanding tribute), the witches decided to try something simple.
“Let’s conjure a breeze,” one suggested.
A breeze did arrive.
Unfortunately, it was carrying an entire swarm of someone’s freshly washed bedsheets from the retirement village. They drifted through the park like confused ghosts before landing squarely on top of the coven. One sheet even declared ownership in permanent marker: “Property of Unit 17 — DO NOT REMOVE!”
Another week, they attempted a healing potion that promised to cure creaky knees. It did… but only for the park’s resident ibis. The bird strutted around like a supermodel on a runway, showing off its newfound agility, while the witches limped after it, hoping to catch it and “borrow a sip.”
But the biggest disaster came during their attempt at a teleportation charm.
“Think of a place peaceful, quiet, and magical,” the head witch instructed.
They all nodded, raised their wands, and POOF!
A blinding flash filled the air.
When the smoke cleared, the witches found themselves mysteriously transported…
Five metres to the left.
Right into the middle of a family picnic.
The toddlers stared.
The witches stared back.
Someone dropped a sausage roll in shock.
After profusely apologising and returning a fairy bread platter they’d accidentally teleported into, the witches trudged back to their usual meeting spot, where the kookaburras cackled so loudly it echoed across the suburb.
Still, every Sunday they returned, robes flapping, cats protesting, spells misfiring — because even if nothing ever went right…
It was the most magical part of their week.
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The Mower & Blow-Dry Brothers
At the Village Green Retirement Resort, residents were stunned when a brand-new sign appeared beside the community garden:
“MOWING • EDGING • HAIRCUTS – SAME PRICE!”
Beneath it stood two grinning lawn-mower men: Daryl and Baz, proudly polishing their mowers like they were precision salon tools.
No one was quite sure how lawn maintenance and hair maintenance became part of the same business model, but the brothers insisted it was “all cutting, just different surfaces.”
Their first customer was old Mr. Tibbles, who misunderstood the sign and thought they were offering a special on hedge trims. He sat down on a plastic patio chair while Daryl wrapped a lawn-clipping bag around his shoulders like a cape.
Baz fired up the mower.
Residents from three streets away poked their heads out as the engine roared to life, drowning out the galahs in the gum trees.
“Hold still, mate!” Baz shouted cheerfully while nudging the mower closer.
“WHY WOULD I HOLD STILL?” Mr. Tibbles yelled back.
“BECAUSE WE’RE DOING LAYERS!”
After several near-death experiences, Daryl gently suggested that maybe the mower was too big for hairdressing. So they switched to the whipper-snipper, which thankfully only removed half of Mr Tibbles’ left eyebrow and most of his dignity.
But business picked up quickly anyway. Word spread that while the haircuts were terrible, the entertainment value was excellent. By Thursday, they had a booking sheet full of retirees who hadn’t had this much excitement since the Great Bingo Riot of ’09.
To improve their services, the brothers tried offering “premium styling.” This involved Baz kneeling behind the client, holding two handfuls of hair, while Daryl trimmed it with hedge shears.
Residents claimed the results were “quirky,” “refreshing,” and “probably illegal.”
The final straw came when Mrs Pomeroy asked for a simple bob cut, and Daryl—misunderstanding—brought out the leaf blower so he could “shape the edges.”
Her hair was last seen drifting over the pickleball courts.
Despite all this, the brothers’ business is still booming. After all, in the Village Green Retirement Resort, you don’t always get what you want—but you always get a good laugh.
And if you’re brave enough, a haircut too.
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Two Lovers Meet
In the Village Green Retirement Village, where gossip travelled faster than the courtesy shuttle, two residents were keeping a secret so big—and so small—that no one had the slightest clue.
The tallest man in the village, a fellow so tall he practically needed weather reports for his head, had fallen hopelessly in love with the smallest woman in the village, a lady so tiny she could borrow the home-brand teacups as bathtubs. Their height difference alone would have caused a village-wide scandal, not to mention the fact that neither of them could sneeze without someone reporting it to the social committee.
So they met discreetly.
Every Tuesday at dusk, when most residents were distracted by happy hour or arguing over whose walker had blocked the laundry door this time, the lanky gentleman would pretend to “stretch his legs.” Meanwhile, the tiny woman would vanish behind a garden shrub so small it barely counted as flora.
Their favourite meeting place was the old tool shed behind the sports hub—a location so unused that even the spiders had moved out. To avoid suspicion, the tall man entered through the front door while the tiny lady slipped in via a hole that used to be for ventilation but now worked perfectly as her personal VIP entrance.
Inside, they shared secret cups of cocoa, whispered sweet nothings, and giggled about how no one had noticed a man who cast a shadow like a lamppost and a woman who could comfortably hide inside a shoe.
One night, disaster almost struck. The tall man sneezed—loudly. A sneeze so powerful it rattled the garden gnomes. A nearby resident shouted, “WHAT WAS THAT?!”
Thinking quickly, the tiny woman grabbed a rusty old rake, poked the man in the leg, and yelled, “JUST THE WIND!” in a squeaky voice. Miraculously, the resident accepted this and wandered off muttering about the weather.
Their secret affair continued, undetected and delightfully mismatched.
And even now, if you listen closely near the tool shed at dusk, you might hear a deep chuckle, a tiny giggle, and the faint rustle of two residents proving that love—especially the secret kind—comes in all sizes.
( This story was inspired by an event in my past when I was working at the Wubin Roadhouse in WA, many years ago )
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Events
The Return of Space: A Social Committee Saga
When the Village Green Social Committee announced they had secured the legendary five-piece band Space for a special one-night-only concert in the Sports Hall, the posters went up everywhere. They put them on noticeboards, in the laundry room, on the pool fence, even tucked under windscreen wipers on residents’ mobility scooters. Excitement was supposed to be high.
But when concert night arrived, the Social Committee members looked out over the crowd with the hopeful expressions of people who had definitely oversold this event… and counted exactly 50 people.
And to make matters worse, 45 of them were friends and family of the Social Committee who were attending purely out of guilt, obligation, or fear they’d be crossed off next year’s Christmas raffle list.
Still, Space performed like they were headlining Wembley. Smoke machines. Laser lights. A drummer who appeared to have drunk four energy drinks and possibly inhaled the smoke machine.
The crowd, meanwhile, sat in neat rows as if attending a council meeting about bin collection schedules.
After the final song—an eight-minute guitar solo that caused at least three hearing aids to shut down—the band thanked the crowd generously, clearly unaware this was the smallest audience of their career.
When the committee gathered afterwards to “review the evening,” one brave soul said,
“Well, turnout was… not catastrophic.”
Another nodded enthusiastically.
“And the band liked us! They said we were ‘intimate’!”
A third committee member clapped their hands.
“That settles it—we book them again!”
And so, without hesitation, logic, or the faintest sniff of a lesson learned, the Social Committee triumphantly announced:
SPACE: THE ENCORE TOUR
Returning next month to the Sports Hall—sponsored once again by…the Social Committee.
Rumour now has it that the Social Committee will be personally knocking on doors this time, promising snacks, prizes, and possibly offering free chair massages just to get the numbers above fifty.
And the band Space, still blissfully unaware they’re performing for a crowd roughly the size of a small book club.
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🔥 Tracy and the Battle of the Community BBQ 🔥
At the Village Green Retirement Home, life was peaceful…
until someone lit the community BBQ.
Then, like a kookaburra hearing gossip, Tracy would swoop in.
No one knew how she did it.
Some said she could smell a sizzling sausage from twelve houses away.
Others swore she had the BBQ linked to a motion sensor under her bed.
But one thing was certain:
If the BBQ made so much as a click, Tracy appeared faster than smoke up a chimney.
One sunny afternoon, a brave resident lifted the BBQ lid—quietly, carefully, respectfully.
It didn’t matter.
Tracy materialised out of nowhere.
Arms crossed. Eyebrows at full altitude. Clipboard already open like she was writing fines in her sleep.
“Aha!” she declared, as if she’d just caught someone committing tax fraud.
“So you’re using the BBQ?”
The resident, startled, blinked. “Uh… yes?”
Tracy inhaled dramatically. “I’ll be reporting this.”
She marched around the BBQ, inspecting it like a crime scene investigator on a detective show no one watches. She checked gas knobs, grill height, the wind direction, and even the sound of the sizzling.
“Mmm hmm,” she muttered, scribbling furiously. “Illegal sizzling volume. Excessive joy. Unsafe tongs angle. This will absolutely go to the committee.”
The resident sighed and returned to flipping their sausages—slowly, so as not to trigger another inspection protocol.
But even a cautious flip was a mistake.
“That’s a level 4 flip,” Tracy barked. “BBQ guidelines clearly state level 3 only. Honestly, does nobody read the manual I wrote?”
The resident didn’t recall any manual.
Most people suspected Tracy wrote it in her head.
After finishing her inspection—and a dramatic disapproval shake of the head—Tracy marched straight to the Social Committee office.
She burst through the door and slammed down her clipboard like she’d uncovered a national conspiracy.
“I have ANOTHER BBQ VIOLATION.”
The Social Committee, who had received 47 similar reports this month alone, simply nodded. They’d learned not to argue. Last time someone tried, Tracy threatened to file a complaint about the tone of their eyebrows.
Eventually, the committee devised a solution.
They awarded Tracy an official title:
“Village Green BBQ Recovery and Oversight Ranger (Temporary, Self-Managed, Non-Enforceable)”
A role so bureaucratic, Tracy adored it.
From that day on, she patrolled the BBQ with grand importance, adjusting imaginary rules, measuring imaginary threats, and writing imaginary violations.
Residents continued cooking anyway — calmly, cheerfully, and loudly enough for Tracy to hear.
Because the only thing that made BBQ day better
than sausages and onions…
was watching Tracy march over at full speed to protect the village
from perfectly normal cooking.
And so, at Village Green, the BBQ always sizzled —
and so did Tracy.
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The Matron
The Matron of Kookaburra Lane was a woman of… unusual pastimes.
While most people spent their afternoons gardening, watching telly, or yelling at kookaburras to stop stealing their sausages, the Matron had a more hands-on hobby.
She sat proudly at her front window each day — framed by lace curtains that hadn’t been washed since the 1980s — armed with a steaming cuppa, a notebook, and her prized possession:
A rather well-worn Voodoo doll.
One Tuesday afternoon, she spotted a resident strolling past her front gate, completely unaware he was being monitored with the intensity of a security camera with trust issues.
The Matron narrowed her eyes.
“Hmmm… walking too fast for a Tuesday,” she muttered.
She reached for her doll, cleared her throat, and began her weekly chant:
“Wiggle, wobble, noodle knees,
Trip but don’t fall — just slightly wheeze.”
She poked the doll’s knee with a pin.
Outside, the resident suddenly slowed, frowned, and gave his leg a confused shake, as though the universe had just whispered, “Guess what? You’re old now.”
The Matron smirked. “Effective.”
A moment later another resident wandered by — this one known for snatching flowers from the communal garden like it was a supermarket free sample station.
The Matron hissed.
“Oh, you again…”
She held up the doll, jabbed its backside, and chanted:
“Prickle, tickle, itchy seat,
Make them squirm upon their feet!”
Outside, the flower-poacher stopped, wiggled, squirmed… then briskly power-walked away like someone who suddenly regretted last night’s curry.
The Matron cackled and sipped her tea.
But her greatest triumph happened when the local gossip—who had spread a rumour that the Matron owned twenty-seven cats (she only had thirteen, thank you very much)—strolled past.
With gleeful precision, the Matron raised the doll, shook her shoulders dramatically, and declared:
“Chatter, blather, words so loose,
Let their voice turn duck-like — QUACK on the spruce!”
She poked the doll in the throat.
Outside, the gossip opened her mouth to greet a neighbour…
And out came a perfectly crisp:
“QUAAACK.”
The gossip clutched her throat in horror.
The neighbour dropped their rubbish bin lid in terror.
A kookaburra fell off its branch laughing.
Inside, the Matron gently placed her doll back in its velvet box like a proud mother tucking in a child.
“Public order,” she declared, “is hard work.”
And every resident of Kookaburra Lane soon learned:
If you walk past the Matron’s window…
Best behave yourself — or prepare for a mysterious itch, wobble, or unexpected poultry impersonation.
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Community Manager
At the Village Green Retirement Home, the Community Manager had reached a level of incompetence so impressive it could have earned its own certificate. Residents often wondered how someone could misplace a whole trolley of towels, cancel Bingo three times in one week by accident, and still confidently strut around with a clipboard as if everything was under control.
The final straw came when the Community Manager proudly unveiled the “New and Improved Weekly Schedule,” which turned out to be last year’s schedule, photocopied upside down, with the word NEW! written in texta across the top. Tai Chi was listed for 3am, Happy Hour was scheduled for 9am (though a few residents didn’t mind), and the bus trip to the Botanic Gardens was somehow booked for February… of the following year.
Residents held a discreet but unanimous meeting behind the community shed—mainly because that was the only place the Community Manager never looked. They agreed they’d simply stop relying on the Community Manager altogether and run things themselves. Within a day, activities were humming, Bingo was back, and the towels mysteriously found their way home.
Meanwhile, the Community Manager wandered around wondering why everything suddenly looked so organised. Clipboard in hand, they nodded proudly, completely unaware that the residents had taken over.
And honestly, the residents preferred it that way. After all, life at Village Green ran much smoother when the manager was kept blissfully… uninvolved.
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Honest Johnny’s High-Priced Tees
Honest Johnny set up his little T-shirt stall each Saturday on the Village Green lawn, right between the koi pond and the spot where the magpies liked to launch surprise attacks. His sign read:
“HONEST JOHNNY’S FAIR-PRICED T-SHIRTS!”
(Hand-painted, slightly crooked, and with “FAIR-PRICED” suspiciously written over another word.)
Residents wandered over, lured by his enthusiastic waving and his catchphrase:
“Prices so good, you’ll think I’ve lost my marbles!”
And indeed, many suspected he had—because the T-shirts were selling for prices last seen on luxury items or small second-hand cars. A basic cotton tee? fifty-five dollars. The “limited edition” one with a slightly misaligned flamingo? One-fifty. The shirt that shrank to toddler size after one wash? That one was “collectible,” so two hundred.
Whenever anyone questioned the pricing, Johnny would sigh dramatically, place a hand over his heart, and say,
“Friends… all profits go to a deeply personal cause.”
The residents, naturally, imagined a noble charity. Maybe puppies. Maybe orphans. Maybe orphaned puppies.
It wasn’t until someone spotted him at the local community club, feverishly feeding the pokie machines like a man hand-delivering his retirement savings into a metal pig, that the truth emerged: Honest Johnny was single-handedly funding his own gambling addiction.
But by then the residents were oddly invested.
“I paid $120 for this shirt,” one would say proudly, “and lost none of it on the pokies myself. That’s practically philanthropy.”
Eventually, the T-shirts became a Village Green status symbol. Wearing one meant you’d made your weekly donation to the “Keep Johnny Solvent” foundation.
And Honest Johnny?
He remained blissfully upbeat, shouting from behind his stall,
“Come on down! Today’s shirts are more expensive than ever!”
Oddly enough… that only made them sell faster.
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Lawn Mower Man
Every Tuesday at precisely 9:07 a.m., the contract lawn-mower man rumbled into the village on his trusty sit-on mower—a machine that sounded like a lawnmower, a blender, and a cranky wombat all arguing at once.
The residents always knew he’d arrived because the birds evacuated the trees in a panic, and the lawn sprinklers mysteriously switched themselves off, as if trying to avoid being run over again.
The trouble was… the poor fellow was somewhat blind. Not completely, just enough to make mowing the lawns a high-stakes adventure sport.
He’d set off confidently across the grass, only to veer sharply left and shave a perfect racing stripe into the rose bushes. Then he’d correct himself, overcorrect, and somehow re-mow the same patch of grass four times while missing an entire lawn the size of Tasmania.
Last week he proudly drove away after “finishing” the job, leaving behind a masterpiece: one patch that looked like a golf green, another like a hayfield, and a mysterious squiggly pattern down the middle that residents now refer to as The Mower Man’s Signature.
And yet, every Tuesday at 9:07, he returns—smiling, waving, and ready to turn perfectly normal lawns into modern art.
The residents don’t complain anymore.
They just grab a cuppa, pull up a chair, and enjoy the show.
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The Mysterious “Flasher” of Lightning Lane
Just after dusk on Lightning Lane—right when the streetlights start flickering like they’re not sure if they want to work overtime—residents began whispering about a “flasher.”
Not that kind of flasher.
This one was far more shocking… and far more embarrassing.
It was Neville Jenkins, the proud owner of a brand-new high-visibility exercise jacket programmed with 1,000 lumens of motivational strobe mode. Neville had no idea the jacket came pre-set to activate automatically at sunset.
So every evening, right as he stepped out for his twilight power walk, his jacket erupted into a blaze of blinding white light, flashing like a disco ball having an emotional crisis.
Passing walkers shrieked.
Dogs howled.
A pelican fell off a lamppost.
Neville, of course, assumed everyone was applauding his commitment to fitness… until the neighbourhood watch group cornered him behind the mailboxes, armed with torches and clipboards.
After a brief investigation (a lot of squinting was involved), they cleared Neville of all wrongdoing—aside from “excessive enthusiasm for activewear.”
From then on, Lightning Lane slept peacefully again.
And Neville kept his jacket… but only used the dim setting.
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The Three Musketeers of Classic Crescent
At the Village Green Retirement Resort, there were three inseparable ladies: Edwina, June, and Gill—otherwise known as The Three Musketeers of Classic Crescent. Wherever one went, the other two were right behind her, like a well-coordinated parade with handbags.
They walked together, talked together, and—most famously—finished each other’s sentences.
“Who wants a cuppa?” Edwina would ask.
“Only if it comes with…” June would add.
“Cake!” Gill would shout triumphantly, already unwrapping a slice from her handbag like a magician producing a rabbit.
They had become so synchronised that residents claimed you could hear their shared conversations echoing down the corridor like a chorus of gossiping kookaburras.
One morning, they shuffled into the Sports Hub for chair yoga. The instructor, a young lady named Dallas with a bun too tight for her own good, greeted them politely.
“Good morning, ladies! Ready to relax?”
“Absolutely,” said Edwina.
“As long as we don’t do that pose…” added June.
“The one where Gill nearly launched herself into the ficus!” finished Gill, who still insisted the pot plant had moved first.
During the session, the group was supposed to inhale together.
Edwina inhaled.
June inhaled.
Gill inhaled so loudly she sucked in Edwina’s tissue, two cough lollies, and half a biscuit crumb she’d stored for emergencies.
After yoga, they tottered off to the café.
“Shall we sit outside?” Edwina said.
“Only if the birds don’t try to steal our—” June added.
“Toast!” Gill yelled, swatting a magpie pre-emptively.
By now, residents had started using the trio as an unofficial public service announcement system. If you asked one of them a question, you’d receive all three perspectives at once—like a human information kiosk, but with more opinions and twice as much perfume.
One afternoon, the manager approached them.
“Ladies, we need volunteers for the upcoming Talent Night,” he said. “Do you have any special skills?”
Edwina blinked.
June nodded.
Gill grinned.
“We can…” Edwina began.
“Finish each other’s…” June continued.
“Sandwiches!” Gill announced proudly, patting her bag full of emergency snacks.
The manager frowned.
“Don’t you mean sentences?”
All three gasped, offended.
“We would never steal each other’s sentences,” Edwina huffed.
“But sandwiches…” June added.
“Are fair game!” Gill concluded, producing—yet again—cake.
And so, the trio ended up on Talent Night performing a dramatic reading of Bingo Rules and Safety Procedures, all three seamlessly passing every sentence to the next like a relay baton.
The audience applauded wildly—not because they understood a word of it—but because watching three ladies share one brain between them was, undeniably, talent.
And afterward?
“Well,” Edwina said.
“That went…” June added.
“Perfectly!” Gill declared, popping cake into everyone’s hands.
Because no matter where they were, what they were doing, or who they were confusing, one thing was certain:
Edwina, June, and Gill would always…
“Stick together,” Edwina said.
“Forever and…” June added.
“Cake!” Gill finished.
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Village Lawn Bowls
At the Village Lawn Bowls Green, the sun was shining, the bias was true, and the only thing wobblier than the players’ knees was their self-control. For years, everyone had politely ignored the one great flaw in their otherwise perfect setup… the nearest toilet was a full kilometre away.
This became especially problematic during the Annual Seniors Sprint-Walk-Shuffle to the Loo Championship, which happened spontaneously every time someone shouted, “Cup of tea, anyone?”
Tim “Lightning Legs” Burke was the reigning champion. He could drop his bowl, spot the first sign of bladder betrayal, and take off like a startled emu—walking frame rattling at maximum velocity. Behind him, the rest of the team would fan out in a desperate slow-motion stampede, hats flying, bowls forgotten, and one brave soul yelling, “Save yourselves! I’ll hold our rink!”
The committee tried solutions.
First they suggested holding it in. That lasted 11 minutes.
Then they proposed portable loos—but after one blew over in a light breeze, no one dared enter again.
Finally, Honest Graham suggested installing a “hydration ban,” but no one trusted a man who sold $55 T’shirts from Temu.
So now, the residents simply accept it: bowling at The Village is a sport of skill, patience, and impeccable timing—not just for the bowls, but for the bladder.
And every game ends the same way: with the entire team power-walking off into the distance, one kilometre of determined shuffling, leaving the green silent… except for the echo of someone asking,
“Do we have time for one more end?”
Absolutely not. Never. Not at Village Lawn Bowling Green.
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The Village Green “Emergency Taxi Service”
At Village Green Retirement Resort, the lawn bowls green was a pleasant stroll from most homes—but the nearest toilet? A full kilometre away. Whoever designed that layout must’ve had a wicked sense of humour.
Enter: The Village Green Taxi Service, also known as Barry’s battered golf cart, The Green Rocket. Originally intended for leisurely lifts around the resort, it quickly gained a far more urgent purpose.
It became…
The Official Lawn Bowlers Emergency Transport Vehicle.
Things started after Gladys, halfway through a close match, suddenly froze mid-delivery and whispered, “Oh dear… the tea has spoken.” She attempted the 1km walk but only got as far as the rose garden before signalling distress.
Barry arrived moments later, skidding to a halt with his usual flair, shouting, “HOP IN! WE’RE GOING CODE BROWN!”
From that moment on, the Green Rocket was parked permanently beside rink number three, engine humming, ready for action. Players didn’t even pretend anymore—they wore wristbands that read:
“Don’t Worry, Barry Is Coming.”
Whenever a bowler stiffened, went pale, and dropped their bowl mid-roll, the entire green would shout:
“Taxi!!!”
Barry would swing into motion, tyres squeaking, leaves flying, bowlers diving out of the way as the Rocket launched toward its newest passenger.
He’d whisk the poor soul down the kilometre-long stretch, commentary booming the whole time:
“Hold tight, Ethel! I’ve seen your type before—YOU CAN MAKE IT!”
He even installed a “fasten seatbelt” sign (it didn’t work), a siren (that was actually a bicycle horn), and a flashing light (that was absolutely stolen from last year’s leftover Christmas decorations).
By the end of the week, the taxi service had completed more urgent medical missions than the entire ambulance service of the region.
And Barry?
He became a local hero—not for his smooth driving (he didn’t have any), but for saving countless pairs of trousers.
The Green Rocket may have been rickety, loud, and powered by prayers rather than batteries…
But at Village Green, it was the most vital vehicle on the road.
Especially for anyone who’d had a coffee.
Or a cuppa tea.
Or… heaven forbid… two.
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Dave & Kim: The Great Promenade Village Ride-Out
Word spread through Promenade Village faster than a golf cart on turbo mode: Dave and Kim, the village’s very own cowboy duo, were leaving early next year. And not quietly, of course—because cowboys never just leave, they ride off into the sunset with unnecessary flair.
Dave, who still wore his wide-brimmed hat even at aqua aerobics, announced it first. He stood on the Sports Hub steps, boots squeaking on the tiles.
“Kim and I are hittin’ the dusty trail,” he said, tipping his hat with the seriousness of a man who once tried to lasso the community BBQ tongs.
Kim, ever the calmer half of the duo, rolled her eyes. “We’re moving, Dave. Not driving cattle across the frontier.”
But Dave had already committed to cowboy mode. He swaggered around the village all week, practicing dramatic goodbyes. Residents couldn’t fetch their mail without Dave leaning on a post, sighing deeply, whispering, “Reckon this might be the last time I see this here letterbox…”
Kim spent most of her time apologising.
Their departure preparations escalated quickly. Dave insisted they train for the “journey.”
“Kim, we gotta be prepared for bandits.”
“There are no bandits where we’re going.”
“Not with that attitude.”
He even tied a length of rope to their mobility scooter to “simulate reins,” which resulted in them doing three circles around the bowling green before crashing gently into a shrub. The shrub survived. Barely.
On their last week at Promenade, the residents gathered to see them off. Someone brought a boombox playing western movie music. Someone else brought tissues. Someone brought snacks (because it’s Promenade Village, and snacks are mandatory).
Dave hopped onto his golf cart—sorry, “iron stallion”—stood tall, and declared:
“Folks… it’s been an honour ridin’ with ya. Keep your boots dusty and your spirits high.”
Kim leaned out the side of the cart. “We’ll be back next month to visit, he’s being dramatic again.”
And with that, their golf cart sputtered forward at a heroic 7 km/h, turning the corner so slowly that everyone had plenty of time to wave, re-wave, and check their watches.
As they disappeared from view, Dave could be heard shouting:
“HYAH! Faster, girl!”
And Kim replying:
“Dave, stop yelling at the cart!”
Promenade Village sighed, smiled, and knew one thing for sure:
Life would be a little quieter… but never quite the same without their favourite cowboys. 🤠🤠
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Promenade Vibes Song
Percy the Possum
Dodgy Deals