IT comes as no surprise really. The Weekend Australian says drought is traditionally followed by above average rainfall. You don’t have to be Einstein to work out that if you don’t have any rain for 10 months, then the two months when you do get it are going to be… well, really wet. They say it’s the Poms who talk about the weather, because they get so much of it, but you only have to live in Townsville for two weeks to discover that, although they get so little of it, they’ve cornered the market in daft conversations about it. Maybe at heart Townsvilleans are all farmers. It’s either too…

THERE are some things you should never discuss with anyone. Constipation is top of the list. It’s very hard to look at a loved one the same way after they have admitted chronic constipation, although they may survive the occasional temporary incapacity. The world makes jokes about constipation, which is funny because it’s not funny. I only know this because friends tell me. My wife says I’m constipated. She tells her friends, for God’s sake! What she actually means in that I am bad tempered. She thinks the two things are synonymous. She thinks the only thing that could possibly make me bad tempered is being constipated. This is curious…

I HAVE an ingrowing toenail. This may seem an insignificant matter, but it feels like a milestone. A millstone, even. Old people have ingrowing toenails. I am being consumed by oldness. First the gods started stripping hairs from my head. That was so long ago I can barely remember when it started. Then they began shoving them up my nose (actually, down my nose would describe it better) and in my ears. The long, wild and wiry ones they glued to my eyebrows. I am under siege from inexorable decay. Forgetfulness, flesh and flatulence are all growing more apparent. Maybe it’s an ‘f’ thing. Now it’s feet. There’s something final…

AT the bottom of my fruit bowl there are three small, fossilised brains. They live there. They were there last week, last month and last year. My wife says they are passionfruit but that’s ridiculous. She might mean that they were passionfruit. Once. Now they have about as much passion as a dog turd. I believe they have been in my fruit bowl for a thousand years, but my wife says no, these ones have only been there since September. The way she said ‘these ones’ makes me suspect there have been others. This surprises me because I didn’t think you had to buy them in. I thought a compulsory…

PINCH, punch, first of the month. For yesterday. This little ritual is a regular event in our household. Twelve times every year, in fact. On the first of every month, while I’m cleaning my teeth, or trying to stuff both feet down the same trouser leg, or pouring my first coffee, bleary–eyed, partially into a cup, some childish cretin will squeeze my flesh between their fingers, slam their knuckles into my arm and cry ‘Pinch, punch, first of the month!’ Oh, how droll! It is only by an effort of supreme will that I don’t club them to death as I snarl, ‘a slap and kick for being so quick.’…