We have more visitors. My staff brought them in last night dripping wet from the pouring rain, like a couple of bedraggled stray cats - poor things. They were introduced to Badger and I as Uncle Dan and Auntie Jo from somewhere called Dubbelyuay. We were plucked from the comfort of our beds to meet them. They smelled funny - like hot sand. Badger was so alarmed by the smell that he leapt from our male staff's arms and made a dash for the laundry with the intention of hiding behind the washing machine until they'd gone. But unfortunately our male staff is surprisingly quick and agile for a gorilla and Badger was re-captured before he even reached the laundry, let alone the washing machine.
My staff have had a few friends to stay lately and they never ask me if I mind. Sometimes they treat this place like a hotel. Anyway Uncle Dan and Auntie Jo are leaving today and heading back to Dubbelyuay. I'll miss Uncle Dan because he really gives a good back scratch and my female staff taught him how to massage my feet. I rewarded him by not leaving a sample of bush chocolate on his lap. Badger took a real shine to Auntie Jo - once he got used to the odd smell. He sat on her lap enjoying being stroked, his little bulgy eyes staring ahead unblinkingly. He never blinks, in fact he's a mysterious creature altogether with his food inhaling and somewhat unnerving gaze. I sometimes wonder if he isn't some sort of physcopath on the quiet. Perhaps when he's staring at you he's thinking of how nice your liver would taste with some fava beans and a bottle of chianti.
Uncle Dan claims to be an American, but he didn't seem to have a gun so I'm not sure that I believe him. He says he comes from Iowa and as Bill Bryson said, "Somebody had to." There several things that don't quite fit with Uncle Dan's claim to be an American. For a start he doesn't weight two hundred kilos and he laughs at British comedy shows that don't have the cue of canned laughter so that the audience know where the funny bits are. He's outraged that so many people in his home country believe poor Mr O'Barmer is a Muslim. He say's so what if he is? It's better than being a bloody Baptist. He reckons that there is a nice Australian gentleman living in America who has more power over the direction of American politics than any politician. I think he means Rupert Murdoch, but I guess it could be Paul Hogan.
My staff's other great friends Uncle Mike and Auntie Hazel are away in Tasmania looking for evidence of intelligent life. I don't think they've had any luck so far because my staff haven't heard from them for weeks. They've probably been kidnapped by mountain men and even as I write are no doubt being used as sex slaves - lucky sods. Apparently Uncle Mike and Auntie Hazel are travelling around in a Caravan. My male staff says they are "grey gonads" or some such thing. This is apparently the official term for humans who like to spend their time clogging up the roads by driving so slowly that an arthritic tortoise could overtake them if there was room. Australia is full of these gonads according to my male staff. He says you can't even drive to the shops without getting stuck behind a "bloody great caravan full of gonads" none of which seem to have the faintest idea where to find either the indicator or the accelerator. He reckons the one good thing about not being able to afford to retire is that he'll never feel the urge to travel around Australia towing a road blocking caravan and whinging about the price of fuel on the Nullabor Plain.