I HAVE antechinus. Not a sexually transmitted disease, but a … sort of … a bit like … like a mouse. As you might expect of almost anything with fur in Australia, it’s a mouse with a pouch. That fact that it has a pouch ought to render it cute, like koalas and possum, but there’s nothing cute about a rodent (sorry, marsupial) that poos in your sock drawer. And on your towel shelf. And in the folds of your clean sheets. And on the Christmas gifts you’ve bought for your family. That’s how I knew they were antechinus Ñ by the poo. Because if you were to place me…

I’m making Christmas presents. I haven’t even got the wheels on yet, and I’m nervous. This one’s made of wood. They’re all going to be made of wood, but I have my doubts that anyone under the age of 20 knows what wood is any more. I’d like to make something a little more contemporary, but I don’t have a degree in quantum physics, or micro-electronic technology, and it’s almost impossible for a bloke with a hammer, a chisel and a bag of nails to make a convincing Barbie Doll, so it’s a train. With a coal tender. “Where’s the on/off switch?” asked my wife. “It’s wooden. It doesn’t have…

Here is a little-known fact – schoolies are not new. As long as teenagers have been going to school, teenagers have been leaving school. And as long as they’ve been leaving school they’ve been terrifying real people. I mean, that’s the point, isn’t it? What do we imagine – they’re going to have a tea party and play pass the parcel? I have friends who answer: “No, no – we expect them to have a good time, but we expect them to be reasonable, too.” But when you’re in your sixties “reasonable” has different meanings to when you’re in your teens. In the world I inhabit “reasonable” is a cup…

When I was a lad, blowsy women used to slander their blowsy neighbours by calling them “a silly moo”, a euphemism – but only just – for calling them a cow. Wars would start. Men with beery breath and cloth caps would be called in to defend the honour of their blowsy wives. I guess those days are over. I note that an advertisement has appeared in the Townsville Bulletin asking: “Are you the next Moo?” There’s something eager about the tone. It’s not a question that’s been asked nervously, as if the questioner expected, moments later, to collect a knuckle sandwich. It appears to have been asked almost with…

There are 40 shopping days till Christmas. I didn’t bother to work out how many Sundays and knock them off the score because this is 2008 and if God were making the world today, with all its high-rise office blocks, four-lane highways and giant oil tankers, he wouldn’t have taken a day off either. And I’ve been Christmas shopping. It’s been a valuable exercise because not only have I bought most of the Christmas presents I’m going to give, but I know what Christmas presents I want to receive, too. I want toys. No trousers or shirts; no ties, no briefcases, no diaries; no iPods, no mobile phones. Mmmm .…