Grumpy and I zipped up to Toodyay on Sunday morning for the Moondyne Festival. Grumpy, distressingly, insists on pronouncing Toodyay with three syllables.
It was quite a fun morning, with Moondyne Joe and his gang roaming the streets in convict garb and waving handguns around in reckless hold ups, the local and hapless constabulary uselessly firing rifles hither and thither, and some rather colourful local floozies (aka mallee roots, if you get my drift ladies and gentleman) rampaging up and down the street, tossing their feather boas over their shoulders, showing a bit of leg and generally getting the good menfolk and the temperance league all hot under the collar.
We had to leave early, which was a bit of a shame because it meant we missed the c-c-c-cat fight and cleavage competition.
That night we watched the second episode of a three-part series on Vincent Van Gogh. This episode was all about how he consorted and lived with prostitutes and picked up a couple of searing cases of gonorrhea and syphilis for his troubles. I felt the day had a rather nice symmetry to it.
No comments:
Post a Comment