Guano Vista Social Club

I hate sounding like a scratched record, particularly when I can't keep tone and content from sounding thorny.

I've come up with a more balanced and honourable reply to the dread question of my interest in "gardening."

These aren't plebeian oiks like you and I who ask, but grandees of gravel from the upper strata of Life's compost heap and they are asking out of the best of motives, assuming that a scion of such an eminence verte must be of the Faith.

"So, are you a gardener, too?" purr these horti-hobbyists, to which the good news reply is Well, no, they can save themselves even a first intake of breath on the hallowed subject.

Puzzled, nay disappointed, look, followed by unspoken raise of eyebrows as if to ask, "Well, what *are* you interested in?".

Ignoring the implication that La Vie Binaree is either yardwork or nothing, I've been trotting out a somewhat patronising list of,

"Oh, I don't know, let's see:

Blogging

Reading

Drinking

Smoking

Guitar plunkery

Er ... Smoking ... drinking ...."

I've decided to go for the Parable of the Pavilion Palais.

Back in my Bainbridge days, on those occasions when life seemed so drained of hope and purpose, I'd mooch down Madison to catch whatever was on at the local fleapit.

Usually this was as good a way to kill 2 hours, after which I'd drag myself back to beans on toast washed down by green tea and whatever decent remnant of a Marlboro I could fish out of the wagga.

Sometimes, however, the movie would be so bankrupt of value that even *my* drab existence suddenly blossomed with newness and possibility and I'd start thinking of all the good things I was missing as I sat slouched there before the screen.

Up I'd bound and stride home, determined to thrown off my lethargy and carp the dime for real.

My God, I've been such a fool: A whole world out there, legs spread, waiting to be plundered.

The kitchen linoleum to be scrubbed

Laundry to be washed

That groveling letter to rich Aunt Hettie ...

Nose hairs to be trimmed

Guitar to be restrung with those tasty La Bella Black Nylons

CDs to be arranged in alpha-generic order

Verandah windows to be cleaned

Fridge defrosted

All joyous tasks in comparison to which sitting hunched in an auditorium pales to the level of ... er ... sitting watching a movie.

By the same token, stooping over some wretched instrument of toil isn't actually competing with some other noble pastime so much as suddenly casting an irresistible glow over other of Life's frolics:

Scraping the swallow guano off the patio

Trampling the tin cans flat, bagging them and off to the dump bins

Writing to the bank with newly ingenious lies about my chances of 'regularising' my financial situation

Writing to that dodgy PO Box in Sidari about my interest in their nondescript employment opportunity

Changing all the duff light bulbs that Mum's been going on at me about since I arrived

Changing the filter on the water pump - no wait, *hacking* a path through the brambles so as to gain actual *access* the pump house.

Myriad joys to enable a man's spirits to break the surly bonds of barrow and blister, and positively soar.