Hobo was a street cat who adopted my son one day when she walked in off the street and took up residence in his house. She was well known among the locals, and every day while he was at work she would walk about, visiting and greeting old friends along the way.
A few years ago my visit to family in the UK coincided with an ‘Art In The Window’ event, where retailers, restaurants and individuals showcased artwork in shop windows and even the front window of their homes. My son and his partner, both talented artists, had joined in the fun.
The town became an open air art gallery, and it became impossible to “quickly pop out to the shops” – on any journey outdoors I found myself distracted and delayed as the various and varied displays along the way caught my eye.
One morning I was sitting in my son’s front room when I heard a commotion outside on the street. There was lots of ooing and aahing and laughing and a small crowd had gathered in front of his house.
I snuck outside to join them and to try to eavesdrop on what they were saying about the art.
As well as the art on display, they were also looking at this little poser, and wondering how much she was selling for.
Odd Ball Photos are those great photos that you take which really don’t seem to fit into a common category. We’ve all taken them and like them, because we just can’t hit delete and get rid of them. If you have any of those type of photos, this challenge is for you.
Because of time zone differences I am too early for today’s challenge, but here’s my contribution for last week.
The pictures speak for themselves in terms of odd-ball-ness.
Local villagers thought Father Christmas had visited one Sunday evening in July when a thirty tonne rig carrying beer overturned on the Kazungula-Livingstone road.
The accident happened at around 10.00pm and within minutes the wreck was surrounded by ‘salvage experts’, all intent on making the most of this unexpected windfall. A handful of policemen arrived from town to guard the load but by midnight they were overwhelmed and a party was in full swing. So riot police were dispatched, tear gas was thrown and the revellers reluctantly weaved their way home.
In the mean time a wreck recovery company worked through the night, moving hundreds of crates of beer to the relative safety of their yard. This had to be done in stages and returning to the warehouse with the second load the driver was surprised to hear loud, joyful singing coming from inside the building. The security guard, whose job it had been to keep an eye on the beers, had taken it upon himself to do some quality control and he seemed oblivious when being reprimanded and relieved of his duties; he simply continued his song as he danced his way out of the yard, still clutching a half-finished sample.
By the next morning all that remained of the cargo was broken bottles strewn across the road, on the verge and in the bush. And a handful of stalwart party-goers who had somehow avoided the tear gas and the police.
This young girl somehow managed to avoid all the broken glass with those bare feet!
This guy had obviously been there all night. We saw him offering advice to the crane operator and when that was ignored he lurched onto the road, stopped a passing taxi and handed some bottles to the driver in exchange for cash.
“Have you ever named an inanimate object? (Your car? Your laptop? The volleyball that kept you company while you were stranded in the ocean?) Share the story of at least one object with which you’re on a first-name basis.”
My children’s father is an engineer. He is also a dreamer, often disappearing into his own thoughts for hours, switching off from the real World while he designs rotary engines, or the perfect irrigation pump, or imagines himself in arguments with a client over unpaid bills. I would chat away to him, often about inanities – the characters in a book I was reading, the dream I had last night – but sometimes about important stuff like school fees and where we were going for our next holiday. After a while I would notice I was getting no response, not even an occasional grunt. I would look over at him, notice the glazed look in his eyes and realise I had been talking to myself. Again. He does this all the time, to everyone, so I shouldn’t have taken it personally – but I often did.
A few years ago when my youngest son was about 10 years old he and his Dad went on a road trip through Mocambique. It was a very long journey and after about the fifth hour of one-sided conversation Last Born came up with an ingenious plan. He dug around in the suitcases and found a pair of socks. He named the socks ‘Dad’, propped them up on the dashboard and continued talking, happy he now had someone’s undivided attention.
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Do you want to beat the bite of mosquitoes? This is a summary of research projects and publications dealing with mosquitoes, mosquito-borne disease, insect repellents, urban wetlands and urban ecology (as well as other Medical Entomology activities) by Dr Cameron Webb (University of Sydney & NSW Health Pathology)