Simon Snodgrass and the Ark Project
Simon Snodgrass woke up one Tuesday morning with a gasp, sat bolt upright in bed, and declared to his wife, “God spoke to me in a dream last night! He said a great flood is coming, and I’ve been chosen to save the neighbourhood!”
His wife blinked twice, sighed, and said, “Simon… last night you had three bowls of chilli and fell asleep watching Shark Week. Are you sure it wasn’t just indigestion and a documentary?”
But Bob was already on the move—because destiny waits for no man. By 9:15 a.m., he was standing in the garage with a tape measure, a pencil behind his ear, and an expression of divine determination. He slapped the wall and announced, “This is where the Ark will go!”
Unfortunately, Simon’s garage was already full:
— A lawnmower that hadn’t run since 2018
— Six boxes labelled “Definitely Important Stuff” (contents unknown)
— And a canoe he once tried to paddle in a backyard inflatable pool
No matter. Prophet Simon shoved everything into the driveway, causing three neighbours to come outside and ask if he was finally having a garage sale.
“No garage sale!” Simon proclaimed. “The flood is coming! I’m building an Ark!”
The neighbours exchanged looks. Margaret from across the street whispered, “Should we call someone?”
“No,” said Gary. “This is the most entertainment we’ve had all year.”
Simon set to work, armed with timber from Bunnings, a YouTube tutorial titled Boat Building for Complete Beginners, and a growing sense of righteous purpose. By lunchtime, he had built something that looked more like a large wooden sandwich than a vessel of salvation, but he was proud nonetheless.
He even began recruiting “pairs” of animals to board the Ark. He managed to coax two magpies into the garage with a meat pie, though they quickly turned on him. He found two possums (who already lived in the garage anyway). And he convinced Mr. Willis’ two dachshunds to participate, though only because they thought the Ark was a new chew toy.
The highlight came when Simon attempted to mount a decorative figurehead—a garden gnome glued to a plank—onto the bow. The gnome drooped sideways, the glue dripped everywhere, and the whole thing collapsed with a noise that made even the magpies laugh.
Two days later, the Bureau of Meteorology announced the week’s forecast:
“Sunny. No rain expected.”
Simon stared at the screen, stunned.
His wife patted his shoulder gently.
“Looks like God postponed the flood, dear.”
Simon took a deep breath, nodded, and said,
“Well… at least the garage is clean.”
And with that, Simon Snodgrass became the only man in the neighbourhood to proudly own a half-ark, half-shed, half-abstract-art installation—still sitting exactly where the magpies now hold meetings.
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Simon Snodgrass and the Divine Project
After the Bureau of Meteorology crushed Simons’s hopes of becoming a modern-day Noah, he sulked around the house for a few days. His half-Ark sat in the garage like an uncomfortable reminder—part boat, part shed, part failed origami.
Simon’s wife, ever patient, finally asked, “So… what’s the plan now? Going to turn the Ark into a man cave?”
Simon shook his head. “No. God will send me another sign. I just need to stay alert.”
The very next night, Simon dreamed again.
This time, he dreamed of a giant tower reaching the heavens, glowing, shimmering… and topped with what appeared to be a weather vane shaped like a sausage roll.
Simon woke up sweating, hair standing on end.
“HONEY!” he shouted. “I’ve been chosen again!”
His wife blinked at him. “To do what? Invent a new pastry?”
“No! To build a TOWER! A mighty tower! A tower that reaches the clouds!”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake…”
By 8 a.m., Simon had dragged his workbench out of the garage, brushed sawdust off his Ark/boat/abstract sculpture, and declared that the tower would be built right next to it—because, as he explained to the dumbfounded neighbour Gary, “Every legendary prophet needs a portfolio.”
He raided the shed, stacking lengths of timber, PVC pipe, two old trampoline legs, and a suspiciously bendy metal pole from a broken Hills Hoist. Simon sketched out a blueprint on a napkin that looked more like a game of tic-tac-toe than engineering, but his enthusiasm was unquestionable.
Construction began.
Neighbours gathered again. Someone brought popcorn. Someone else brought a chair.
Margaret muttered, “This man is a hazard, but by gosh he’s entertaining.”
Simon proudly erected the first “level” of the tower, which wobbled violently every time a breeze thought about passing by. The possums from the Ark moved in almost immediately.
He then added a second level—sort of. It leaned like a confused flamingo.
The third level wouldn’t stay upright at all, so Simon strapped it to the leaning second level with bungee cords and optimism.
By sunset, Simon stood triumphantly on a ladder, hair blowing in the gentle breeze, installing the pièce de résistance—the sausage-roll-shaped weather vane, handcrafted from leftover pastry and spray paint.
Suddenly, a gust of wind puffed through.
The entire tower shuddered. The neighbours gasped. Simon froze.
And then—
WOBBLE. CREAK. WOBBLE. WOBBLE.
WHOMP.
The tower toppled sideways, landing perfectly on the Ark, snapping the gnome figurehead off and sending one possum flying into Margaret’s birdbath.
Simon climbed down slowly, defeated but thoughtful.
His wife walked up beside him, arms crossed.
“So. Tower of Snodgrass didn’t work out?”
Simon sighed. “I suppose not.”
She nodded. “Good. Next time you dream of something big and biblical, just remember one thing.”
“What’s that?” he asked hopefully.
“Write it down and ignore it until morning.”
Simon considered this deeply.
Then his eyes widened. “HEY! What if the next dream is about building a giant wooden whale?”
His wife walked inside and shut the door.
The neighbours groaned.
The possums cheered.
And Simon picked up a hammer.
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