Pamela King's Blog, page 7

No Theme

Usually, our local writer’s group sets a topic for members to write about for inclusion in our monthly magazine, Scribblings. Although there is no requirement to stick to the theme, some may have felt that there are things they like to write about that are not covered by the themes so we didn’t have one for August. What did I write? Haha, see the piece below.
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There will be no theme for next month they said. Oh, my heavens! I was just getting used to being told what to write about and now I have to decide for myself; find my own inspiration! Never mind, I can do it … or can I?
With that thought on my mind I go to bed, but alas not to sleep. What will I write about? What will interest people? What style? Should I give poetry another try?
Toss, turn. At last a thought comes into my head. I lay awake composing a brilliant piece. Do I get up and write down? Of course not. Can I remember it in the morning? No. Oh well, another day and I can give more thought.
Into the shower now and get ready to tackle other chores. As the hot water runs through my hair the nagging question disturbs my ablutions. What if I write about … Yes! That’s it. It could be a humorous piece. My mind mixes and stirs ideas and clever phrases.
It only takes a few minutes before I am sitting in front of the computer ready to document my cleverness. Gone. That clever piece is gone. Probably forever. 
I am uptight and annoyed. Walking one of the dogs usually helps relax and send me into a reverie of sorts. Maybe I’ll get inspiration again.
As I walk I gaze around. Nothing. No inspiration today. Another day gone and still no idea what to write.
Maybe I’ll look through some writing prompts. Nothing appeals or I have no expertise of the topics suggested. Another day gone. If I don’t get onto it soon that dreaded email reminding us for our next contribution will land in the mailbox.
Writers are advised to write about what they know or are passionate about but I’ve done dingoes and dogs a few times. Won’ that be over doing it?
Driving to work I listen to an audio book. It gives me inspiration about style. I can do that! Nope, when I get home it’s gone again.

Extract: For the Love of a Dingo by Berenice Walters and Pamela King

This extract is from the first of the three stories in this book: Dora the Adorable Dingo by Berenice Walters. Edited by Pamela King. ***Dora Arrives
“Our very first Dingo arrived, it seemed, by accident. A gentleman wishing to purchase a Cattle Dog pup broached the subject of Dingoes and my efforts to have it recognised officially as native fauna.
He asked me if I would like a female pup, guaranteed pure bred, but no questions asked.
The incredible dream I had nurtured for so long looked like it could at last become a reality. I did not really believe that it could come true until she was actually handed over to me, a little fearful bundle of grey. I had told no one, not even my family. She was from the Barrington Tops region of the NSW tablelands, an area where winters can be very cold.
Dora was about 7 weeks of age when she arrived at our home. She was petrified of humans, and extremely cautious of everything, though she showed interest in the other dogs kennelled here, and they in her.
When I took her in my arms she tried to hide from the world by burying her head under my arm.  As a baby she always did this when approached by strangers.
I first took her into the house and gently put her down on the floor, trying to reassure her continually with my voice. She flew into a dark corner under the lounge, petrified. Talking to her quietly, I gradually put my hand on her and carefully edged her to me. Although frantic with fear she did not attempt to bite though she squealed in alarm and growled.
When the family came home, each was speechless in horror. Then, "Mum! That's a Dingo! We'll all end up in gaol. Get rid of it."
My pup and I just clung together, instinctively knowing that we belonged together; that this was our destiny.
She was covered with a dense, blackish-fawn fur, her face black. She had little or no top coat. Her eyes were dark brown. Her skin was mostly a bluish­pink, the roof of her mouth dark like a Cattle Dog’s, but the mouth as a whole appeared darker, almost blue. The coat near the skin was yellow on top of her back, but on her ribs and belly it was dark blue. Her stifles were longer and more rounded and lay of shoulder more angulated than the Cattle Dog’s. Her frame was well boned, legs strong and feet round and deep padded with strong well-arched nails. She had a dark spot on her tail.
Comparing her to a Cattle Dog pup, their weights were similar, although the Cattle Dog pup’s body was thicker.
The main difference was in the teeth. Her canines in particular were longer and sharper. This has remained a difference. Her eyes were almost black, almond in shape and set obliquely.Dora Makes Friends
I took Dora out into the dog yards and carefully introduced her to the various Cattle Dogs through the fences. Fortunately, we had a litter of Cattle Dog pups about the same age, both reds and blues, and I was able to carefully integrate Dora into their enclosure. They were immediate friends. I noticed Dora was very careful not to take the initiative but followed the play and joined in.
As the pups got along so well and the Cattle Dog pups seemed to give Dora courage, it was decided to leave them together for the night. On that first night she seemed content in her enclosure shared with a blue pup, Juicy, and a red pup Sun Sally. When the pups were fed, the Cattle Dog pups tucked in and quickly had their fill; it was some weeks before Dora stood and ate a meal. She would eat a little, and then prowl round for a time, then return for a bit more, sometimes vigorously shaking it as if to 'kill' it. This behaviour is not restricted to the Dingo.
When she howled just on dusk and the other dogs joined in. I knew she was settling in, and that she was accepted.
Next morning I was over with the pups early. All was well. As soon as I entered the enclosure I was met by an avalanche of Cattle Dog pups. Dora was enthusiastic but kept slightly back. In the fourteen years we shared together, she never jumped up on me. At all times she treated me with the respect accorded to an alpha person, always approaching me with head and ears slightly lowered, her beautiful deep browns looking into me with love, loyalty and trust.
Up to at least six months of age she was never dominant or aggressive. When other humans approached, she dashed behind the kennel and peered out cautiously, always keeping other pups between herself and the stranger. Eventually she learned to stand her ground, head weaving slowly from side to side, taking in any new smells, and gradually making her way to the fence. After some weeks she would actually go to the fence and allow herself to be touched. I felt she regarded the fence as her protection as she was far less wary when the fence was between her and any stranger.
Dora's movements were more like those of a cat than a dog. She often put me in mind of a lioness. She could start off at an enormous speed, doubling up like a greyhound; head stretched out like an arrow. When she stopped suddenly she curved her body like a cat. Her hooded ears could rotate almost like a radar screen.

Extract: Angel with Drumsticks: The rock that shook the foundations of the Vatican. By Pamela King

This week I’d like to give you a short extract from my first book Angel with Drumsticks. This is how it started.
The young men fidgeted behind stage, waiting for the seats to fill and their signal to begin. This was to be the biggest concert yet in their fledgling music careers, and each one was filled with that curious mixture of excitement flavoured with nervousness that comes from such an event. They had practised until they were flawless—their fingers knew every chord change, their voices every harmony, they had been living and sleeping and dreaming this moment for weeks  and they were as ready as they could ever be—yet still the hearts fluttered lightly and breath was occasionally short; they knew that this was an important milestone.
Three bands, all comprising young men, would share the stage, and each take their turn at the songs they had been allotted until the last number, which they would perform together. They had never worked together before—this was the first time they had ever met—and they wondered how their very different and distinctive styles would play out together on stage.
As they waited, they could hear the concert hall filling.
Just over two hours earlier, when their car had pulled up outside the forbidding building designed by 17th Century architect Borromini, the young band members stared at the intimidating building and took a collective deep breath. Angelo dropped his cheek into the palm of his hand. “Well, we are here, I hope everything goes alright”.
It had been a typical Roman spring day.  Aprile dolce dormire is an Italian expression meaning ‘April sweet sleep’. In Rome it is a beautiful mid-spring month, the days are usually fresh, mostly sunny or partly cloudy. It is known as a month for quiet relaxation and great for day trips or short holidays.
Now, as the bands launched into their music—delighting their audience with their new beat, their new style, their new way—the gentle spring air was shattered, the music was so loud it could be heard kilometres away. Even the thunderous Italian traffic with its constant discordant harmony of horns could not be heard in the forecourt of the Oratorium let alone inside the hall itself.
The 2,000-seat auditorium had no pre-booked seating and it was a matter of first in, first served. The organisers had been hopeful of a healthy turnout, but even their most optimistic assessments were shattered when over 10,000 turned up, and around 8,000 were turned away from the doors of the already full hall. Speakers were hastily erected outside for the benefit of these eager young fans, who jostled and crowded on the outside, desperate to hear the sounds of their favourite band.
The national Italian television station, RAI, set up their television cameras to record the occasion and police lines were unable to contain the horde of youngsters who, motivated by this new and vital mystical feeling, had swamped the seats, tables and cornices to insure those few centimetres of space needed to wiggle their limbs.
The boom of the drums and bass sounded like a thunder storm about to hit—and it was.
The 8,000 fans, mostly young people, who couldn’t get into the venue, were intoxicated by the sounds coming from the huge speakers that had been hastily set up so everyone could still hear the music being performed inside.
Inside, the applause was nearly as loud as the music and young girls were screaming with tears running down their faces as they jostled to get a closer glimpse of their new music heroes and, if at all possible, touch them.
As the words and the music drew the crowd in, eager for more, the musicians were both astounded and elated by the adulation and excitement of the crowd.
The young musicians of Angel and the Brains had practiced industriously, perfecting their talent and style. They had already enjoyed some success with their new Italian Beat but this was a phenomenal response to their new style. “At last our music is being received well,” the young Angelo Ferrari thought to himself as they handed over to the next band on the stage, and wished with all his heart that his band were performing more than their allotted four songs.
At 6pm the temperature was still a warm 20 degrees. Inside the Oratorium, the crowd of 2,000 people, RAI’s lighting and the stage lighting added to the intensity of the heat. Inside it was hot, airless and smoke filled, but the audience in their frenzy didn’t seem to notice.
Members of Angel and the Brains had hoped that this concert would go well, and launch their music careers, and it seemed that their hopes and dreams were to be realised this night. They could have no way of knowing that this concert that would see them rocket to the dizzy heights of fame, would also be the cause of their ultimate failure.
What the bands and the fans didn’t know back then in 1966 was that a religious furore would follow this performance, for this was no ordinary rock concert; it was the world’s first rock Mass and the venue for this extraordinary concert was not an ordinary concert hall or outdoor stadium but in fact a Catholic Church—the St. Filippo Neri Oratorium, Sala Borromini in Piazza della Chiesa Nuova 18, Rome.
It would be the first—and last—time that rock music would be heard from within the hallowed walls of a Catholic Church in Rome.
On stage at the Mass, while waiting to perform his next song, Angelo pondered his journey to this point. It had been such a brief time since he had decided in 1962 at the age of 14 he wanted to play music and make it his career.
It had begun some years earlier when his mother had interrupted his television watching to announce, “I have arranged for a piano teacher to come once a week so you can learn to play.”
The ten year old had groaned, “Why?”
“Because everyone needs to learn some cultural skill”, she replied. “Don’t groan like that, your sister will also be learning ballet”.
That made Angelo grin as he chuckled to himself, “That will be a big joke!”
Although he complained at first about the lessons, Angelo quickly took to music and when he got bored with repetitive practising of piano scales, he would experiment with different chords and sing along to his own music, writing down songs as he created them.
Angelo’s mother had been a soprano and her father a tenor. She recognised the boy’s talent and passion and once again decided it was time for lessons. She said to him, “Well, if you like to sing you better learn how.”
His father spoke to a well-known singing teacher, hoping he would train his son in voice. “I don’t just take anyone,” the teacher warned. “You had better bring him along so I can hear him,”
Angelo was very nervous but the teacher quickly put him at ease asking gently, “What would you like to sing?”
“Un Angelo non sei,” replied Angelo, with nerves fluttering in his stomach. “Do you know it? It is a Little Tony song.”
“Yes, I know it,” smiled the maestro.
Angelo sang while the teacher accompanied him on the piano. When he finished, the teacher turned enthusiastically to Angelo’s father and announced, “I’ll take him, he has a voice!”
In addition to his piano lessons Angelo now started singing lessons once a week.
He was often left alone at home but was never lonely when he had music to play. He enjoyed it and it was an escape for him trying new passes and chords. He often wrote songs down just for his own enjoyment.
As he watched television or listened to the radio he thought to himself, “I can do better than that!” The quiet music rebel inside had started to emerge, showing signs of what was to come.
After taking formal singing lessons for a year and a half and learning keyboard he also tried the bass guitar but decided it was not for him.
Between the ages of 14 and 16 he performed as a solo singer in theatres and as a support artist to bigger name performers in concerts in small towns.
Angelo remembered the first time he was booked to sing by himself.
“I was so nervous. I remember so clearly the variety theatre where I performed for a week alongside other performers including comedians, a juggler, magician and dancers.

An Angel Says

I have had this on my computer for many years and read it often. I have been unable to find out who originally wrote it. There is some very good advice on how we should live our lives.***An Angel says, 'Never borrow from the future. If you worry about what may happen tomorrow and it doesn't happen, you have worried in vain. Even if it does happen, you have to worry twice.'
Go to bed on time.Get up on time so you can start the day unrushed.
Say No to projects that won't fit into your time schedule, or that will compromise your mental health. 
Delegate tasks to capable others.
Simplify and unclutter your life.
Less is more. (Although one is often not enough, two are often too many.)
Allow extra time to do things and to get to places. 
Pace yourself. Spread out big changes and difficult projects over time; don't lump the hard things all together.
Take one day at a time.
Separate worries from concerns. If a situation is a concern, let go of the anxiety. If you can't do anything about a situation, forget it.
Live within your budget; don't use credit cards for ordinary purchases.
Have backups; an extra car key in your wallet, an extra house key buried in the garden, extra stamps, etc.
K.M.S. (Keep Mouth Shut). This single piece of advice can prevent an enormous amount of trouble.
Do something for the Kid in You every day. 
Carry a book with you to read while waiting in line.
Get enough rest.
Eat right.
Get organised so everything has its place. 
Listen to a tape while driving that can help improve your quality of life.
Write down thoughts and inspirations.
Every day, find time to be alone.
Having problems? Talk to someone. Try to nip small problems in the bud. Don't wait until it's time to go to bed.
Make friends.
Laugh.
Laugh some more!
Take your work seriously, but not yourself at all.
Develop a forgiving attitude (most people are doing the best they can).
Be kind to unkind people (they probably need it the most).
Sit on your ego.
Talk less; listen more.
Slow down.
Remind yourself that you are not the general manager of the universe.
Every night before bed, think of one thing you're grateful for that you've never been grateful for before. IT MAY HAVE A WAY OF TURNING THINGS AROUND FOR YOU.

We really are a weird mob

This piece titled YOU KNOW YOU'RE AUSTRALIAN IF has been around some time but I thought I’d try and explain some of it for my overseas friends.
***You believe that stubbies can be either drunk or worn. Stubbies is the term used for a particular style of men’s shorts AND a small bottle of beer.

You're liable to burst out laughing whenever you hear of Americans "rooting" for something. Hmmm this is a bit delicate. I’ll just say it has sexual connotations 


You pronounce Melbourne as 'Mel-bin'.
You believe the 'L' in the word 'Australia' is optional.
These two just come down to our lazy accent

You can translate: 'Dazza and Shazza played Acca Dacca on the way to Maccas.' Darren and Sharon played AC/DC music on the way to McDonalds (the hamburger type). Easy!
You believe it makes perfect sense for a nation to decorate its highways with large fibreglass bananas, prawns and sheep. The Big Banana out the front of a Gift Shop surrounded by a Banana Plantation near Coffs Harbour NSW was the first of Australia's “Big Things” and set a trend in towns across the country. They are generally related in some way to the tourism industry and promote a local product.


You think 'Woolloomooloo' is a perfectly reasonable name for a place. Why not?
You're secretly proud of our killer wildlife. That’s pretty true for most Australians but none of us really want to meet them.
You believe it makes sense for a country to have a $1 coin that's twice as big as its $2 coin. Why not?
You understand that 'Wagga Wagga' can be abbreviated to 'Wagga' but 'Woy Woy' can't be called 'Woy'. Yep, of course.
You believe that cooked-down axle grease makes a good breakfast spread. You've also squeezed it through Vita Wheats to make little Vegemite worms. What Australian child doesn’t love Vegemite worms?

You believe all famous Kiwis are actually Australian, until they stuff up, at which point they again become Kiwis. Well at one time they did give consideration to becoming a state of Australia. So did Fiji but they didn’t turn up.
Beetroot with your Hamburger... Of course. Of course, it is good for you.
You know that certain words must, by law, be shouted out during any rendition of the Angels' song 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again' And "Living next door to Alice".  Usually only during a drinking session.
You believe that the confectionery known as the Wagon Wheel has become smaller with every passing year. Sadly, so have most of our other lollies (candy for my American friends)


You believe that the more you shorten someone's name the more you like them. Yep, it’s a sign of endearment.
Whatever your linguistic skills, you find yourself able to order takeaway fluently in every Asian language. I think Chinese takeaway would have been the first ethnic takeaway food in Australia so we learnt early.
You understand that 'excuse me' can sound rude, While 'scuse me' is always polite. It’s all in the emphasis and inflection.
You know what it's like to swallow a fly, on occasion via your nose. Hmmm, a hazard of living in Australia.
You know it's not summer until the steering wheel is too hot to handle and a seat belt buckle becomes a pretty good branding iron. As lovely as leather is, many people opt for fabric seat covers because leather can get hot too.
Your biggest family argument over the summer concerned the rules for beach cricket. Doesn’t every family have that problem?
You shake your head in horror when companies try to market what they call 'Anzac cookies'. Anzac Biscuits!!! We eat biscuits in Australia not cookies. Oh and Anzac biscuits are very yummy.
You still think of Kylie as 'that girl off Neighbours'. Kylie Minogue started her acting career as a teen character in an Australian soap opera called Neighbours.
When working in a bar, you understand male customers will feel the need to offer an excuse whenever they order low-alcohol beer. It’s a macho thing.
You know how to abbreviate every word, all of which usually end in ‘o’: arvo, combo, garbo, kero, metho, milko, muso, rego, servo, smoko, speedo, righto, goodo etc. Like I said before’ we are a tad lazy with speech.
You know that there is a universal place called "woop woop" located in the middle of nowhere...no matter where you actually are. If a place is a REALLY long way out it is usually described as being ‘at the back of woop woop’.
You know that none of us actually drink Fosters beer, because it tastes like shit. But we let the world think we do. Because we can. Why let the good beer go overseas anyway?
You have some time in your life slept with Aeroguard on in the summer. Maybe even as perfume. Aeroguard is a popular brand of insect repellent to stop those flies and moszzies (sorry mosquitoes) getting in your mouth while sleeping. The popular advertising slogan for the product was another Australian phrase – ‘didyahavagoodweekend’; yes said like that all together.
You've only ever used the words - tops, ripper, sick, mad, rad, sweet - to mean good. And then you place 'bloody' in front of it when you REALLY mean it. Yep
You know that the barbecue is a political arena; the person holding the tongs is always the boss and usually a man. And the women make the Salad. The women also chop the onions, prepare the marinade, set the table and wash up; then congratulate the men on a wonderful meal and thank them for taking over the meal preparation for a day.
You say 'no worries' quite often, whether you realise it or not. It’s reassuring for the person you are talking to and you say it whether something is a bother or not.
You understand what no wucking furries means. Umm yea, just reverse the first letters of the words.
You've drank your milk/tea/coffee/milo through a Tim Tam. The best form of chocolate flavoured straws except they are not straws they are chocolate biscuits.


You own a Bond's chesty. In several different colours. Bonds is a brand of clothing famous for their singlets. The logo was a character called Chest Bond.



You know that some people pronounce Australia like "Straya" and that's ok. Laziness again.
You have a thong tan...not on your arse! Thongs in Australia are what other countries call flip flops.

Razorback NSW Australia

The night was pitch black when the white owl swooped low across the windscreen as the car drove over Razorback. The announcer of death they say of the owl but it is also said they herald good fortune.
Was this a message for the driver or did it portend yet another Razorback legend?
Whatever the message from the owl there is no doubting this stretch of road, once part of the Hume Highway, has seen its share of death, mystery, disaster and conflict.
Aptly named for its steep ascent and narrowness its story begins with harsh convict labour followed by explorers and settlers.
Tales followed of horrific murders, unexplained accidents and notorious bushrangers of the worst kind; of bullock wagons, horse drawn carriages and motor cars mysteriously going over the edge. Was the cause the ‘phantom’ road that appears causing drivers go in that direction or a ghostly aparition that frightened them? Many have heard the ghost of one bullocky hauntingly calling his team in the middle of the night.
Mysteries span the life of the road with horses suddenly being spooked, not stopping until they got to Picton, and cars being nudged as they travelled the road when no other car could be seen.
Many travellers over the mountain will remember the original Anthony Hordens’ oak tree. It mysteriously died when the store collapsed. Local legend tells how the landowner, no longer receiving payment for the use of its image, died of the same poison he used on the tree.
Then there was Ted ''Greendog'' Stevens, a semi-trailer owner-driver who became the face of a nine-day blockade, demanding the abolition of road taxes. Before the construction of the freeway he and other truckies blocked the Hume Highway in 1979. They were joined by more than 2000 other owner-drivers. A monument to their battle stands today on the side of the road.
But, does the mountain also have a healing power? D'harawal legend says if you stand on the mountain with your back to the wind your troubles will be blown away.

Fashionable Recollections

My earliest memory of being aware of fashion was in the 1950s. I was about eight years and often stayed overnight at a friend’s house. We shared a bedroom with her older sister who worked in Sydney. I would lay in bed watching her pull dress after dress out of the wardrobe trying to decide what she would wear that day. Even more fascinating was to watch her don layer after layer of petticoats. How I loved those full skirts flounced out with, sometimes, five or six petticoats underneath so the skirt would flare out and spin just right.
My next fashion passion wasn’t until the early 60s. At least I think that was when I fell in love with black heeled boots, tight black pants and overlarge purple jumpers.  I remember girls wearing outfits like this very clearly but strangely my research does not show any photos.
In Australia, in the 1960s, teenagers usually followed one of three groups – surfies, rockers or mods. The surfies were focussed on beach attire. Their life was centred around surfing and the dance of choice was the stomp.
The rockers were mostly motor bike groups (or those who wanted to be tough). They, naturally, wore a lot of leather. I think this is where the purple jumper fashion fitted in and probably the reason my mother would not approved the tight pants and certainly not the heeled boots for a young teenager. Although she did agree to knitting a purple jumper. It just wasn’t sloppy enough for my liking. For those who have never heard of the mods think Emma Peel from the Avengers but I’ll come back to that.
Of course, the fashion for the surfies included blonde hair and many girls would use peroxide to lighten their natural colour. There was only one problem. When the girls went swimming in chlorinated pools their hair would turn green! It was one of the times I was grateful to be a natural blonde.
Back to the mods. They were, to me, the best dressed and Emma Peel was certainly my heroine; not just her character but her fashions. Oh, how I loved mini skirts, long boots, hot pants and then as we moved towards the 1970s culottes, bell bottoms and platform shoes.
Of course mini skirts have been in and out many times since then but I think my generation were more aware of how to stand, sit and bend in them. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that pantyhose only came in and we may have mentally thought we were showing our suspender belts. I remember quite clearly trying to avoid the filing cabinet draw second from the bottom. The top two were fine providing you didn’t have stretch too far back thus raising that hemline a tad too far. The bottom drawer involved squatting down on the ground, knees together of course! But that third drawer! It was too low to bend over and quite uncomfortable to bend the knees just enough to lower your hands but we coped.
There was one other fashion I was passionate about. I always wanted a shimmy dress. The style from the 1920s with rows and rows of fringing. As a teenager I did a pretty good shimmy – I just needed the dress to go with the dance. The photo at the top of this page is the closest I ever got with its fringe hanging over cut outs in the side of the bodice.

Gender Bender

Sharing some humour about inanimate objects and their gender.

You may not know that many non-living things have a gender. 

For example:

Freezer Bags - Male, because they hold everything in, but you can see right through them.


Photocopiers - Female, because once turned off, it takes a while to warm them up again. They are an effective reproductive device if the right buttons are pushed, but they can wreak havoc if the wrong buttons are pushed.
Tyres - Male, because they go bald and they are often over-inflated.
Hot Air Balloons - Male, because, to get it to go anywhere, you have to light a fire under it, and of course, there's lots of hot air.
Sponges - Female because they're soft, squeezable and retain water.
Web Pages - Female, because it's always getting hit on.
Railway Stations - Male, because they use the same old lines to pick people up.
Hourglass - Female, because over time, the weight shifts to the bottom.
Hammer - Male, because it hasn't changed much over the last 5,000 years, but it's still handy to have around.
Remote Control - Female...... Ha! You thought it would be male, but consider this - They give a man pleasure, and he'd be lost without one. And while he doesn't always know the right buttons to push, he keeps trying.

I am royalty

What am I doing here among these steam locomotives? You may well ask. Pull up a seat and I’ll tell you my story.
You call these huff and puff monsters the glory days of rail but I have my own glory to boast about.
Firstly, I was born in Canada, at the Montreal Locomotive Works in Quebec. Locomotives like me, called the 40 class, were the first mainline diesel electric locomotives to be built for New South Wales and, as you can tell by my number, 4001, I am the class leader having entered service 30 November 1951.
My brother, 4002, and I were immediately assigned to freight work. These steam trains you see around me required a lot of servicing and regular watering. We also performed better and proved our worth.
Our abilities recognised, we were put to work on passenger trains and in1952 two of my brothers slashed three hours of the old steam train times.
But, I had the supreme honour in 1954 when 4002 and I were painted in royal blue livery and hauled Queen Elizabeth II’s carriages for her tour. It was our greatest moment of glory and we proudly displayed our royal colours until the 1960s.
So, you see, my friend. I have earned my right to be on display here at the museum. Not only am I an important exhibit. I was thought so highly of that I have been restored to running condition and given back my livery I displayed proudly for so long.
*****
This is another piece I wrote for the Scribblings magazine of the Wollondilly Branch of the Fellowship of Australian Writers. The theme for this was “A Photo”.

You find out interesting things when you have sons

This has been around for a while but I love the humour in it. Incidentally, fortunately, my son did not try MOST of these.
A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 200 m2 house to a depth of 10 cm.If you spray hair spray on dust balls and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.A 3-year old Boy's voice is louder than 200 adults in a crowded restaurant.If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 20 Kg boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is strong enough, however, if tied to a paint can, to spread paint on all four walls of a 6m x 6m room.You should not throw cricket balls up when the ceiling fan is on. When using a ceiling fan as a bat, you have to throw the ball up a few times before you get a hit. A ceiling fan can hit a cricket ball a long way.The glass in windows (even double-glazed) doesn't stop a cricket ball hit by a ceiling fan.hen you hear the toilet flush and the words 'uh oh', it's already too late.Brake fluid mixed with bleach makes smoke, and lots of it.A six-year old Boy can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36-year old Man says they can only do it in the movies,Certain Lego's will pass through the digestive tract of a 4- year old Boy.Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.Super glue is forever.No matter how many jelly crystals you put in a swimming pool you still can't walk on water.Pool filters do not like jelly crystals.VCR's do not eject 'BL&T' sandwiches even though TV commercials show they do.Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.Marbles in petrol tanks make lots of noise when driving.You probably DO NOT want to know what that smell is.Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.The fire department in Brisbane, Qld, has a 5-minute response time.The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy.It will, however, make cats dizzy.Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.
 80% of Women will pass this on to almost all of their friends, with or without kids.

80% of Men who read this will try mixing the bleach and brake fluid.