Isabella and The Pile of Dirty Washing in the Laundry.

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Isabella and The Pile of Dirty Washing in the Laundry.

There was no denying it. The rain was no where to be seen and Isabella had no more excuses for the large pile of dirty washing in the laundry. She had never seen the sky so blue, the sun so warm, the air so clean. Isabella had laundry to do and there was nothing that would stop her. In an instant, Isabella stood back, took a deep breath and thought, “The sky is blue. The sun is warm. The air is clean. ” There began the procurement of fresh Australian king prawns, a perfectly ripe avocado and a bottle of chilled local white wine. With Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds playing, good food and great wine, Isabella believed herself to be the happiest she had been in ages. Thank God she had decided to stuff the laundry today. She may have to do the same tomorrow.

Isabella and the International Fruit Pickers.

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Isabella and the International Fruit Pickers.

Isabella spoke many languages – the language of love, the language of food, the language of wine. Luckily for Isabella, these languages are commonplace amongst the non-English speaking backpackers who frequented the Granite Belt every picking season. After a few awkward ‘oui ouis,’ Isabella broke out her picnic basket, cranked open the wine and shared the regions harvest with her new friends. It was lovely until the moment was interrupted abruptly by the farmer. In the confusion of meeting new people, Isabella had forgotten that the fruit had to be picked BEFORE they could celebrate the harvest. Lesson learned.

Isabella and The Good Looking Barista.

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Isabella and The Good Looking Barista.

Isabella was on to her fourth coffee. She was pretending to be waiting for a friend but truth be known, she was just perving at the good looking Barista. He had it all. Freshly roasted beans, ground to order, precision tampering, fast to engage and a crema that would make even the coffee gods weep with joy. Double shot short black, long macchiato, flat white, soy latte – the choice was endless. Isabella believed that she could withstand the caffeine overdose in the name of the good looking Barista…. if only she knew his name. And then she gazed into the Barista’s beautiful green eyes as he cleaned his frothing wand. His name didn’t matter any more. He will only ever be known to Isabella as The Good Looking Barista.

Isabella and The Disco Grooves.

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Isabella and The Disco Grooves.

At first she was afraid. She was terrified. Isabella realised that no matter what happened to her, wherever life took her, whoever she fell in love with, whatever she ate, whatever she wore, whoever she hung around, she was forever going to channel Gloria Gaynor’s “I will Survive”. There was no hiding the fact that in Isabella’s mind, disco was still very much alive. If only she could control her spontaneous disco dancing when out in public. Don’t even get her started on the BeeGees.

Isabella and The Front Loader Washing Machine.

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Isabella and The Front Loader Washing Machine.

Contemplation on the veranda – so much to do, so little time. Even her armed friend was enjoying the reflective mood circling in the air. It wasn’t until Isabella revealed her frustration at waiting for the front loader to complete it’s cycle that the tranquility was so abruptly broken. Yes, the front loader saved water, washed better and so neatly enabled bench space in her laundry, but for goodness sake – hurry the f*@^ up.

Isabella and the Downward Dog.

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Isabella and the Downward Dog.

Isabella was not the most flexible person in the world. When she decided to re-start her yoga practices at the local community centre, she thought it would be a great idea to have a muscle relaxant (or two) to fast track her body into the necessary warm-up mode. Everything was working wonders until she contorted herself into downward dog. It was only a matter of time before the muscle relaxant combined with her irritable bowel and weak pelvic floor muscles forced her into a loud and stinky humiliation. Isabella ran to the loo only to spend the rest of the session hidden behind the public toilet block where the wild yellow daisies grew. Needless to say, the relaxant did not feature at the next class. Nameste.

Isabella and The Happy Hours.

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Isabella and The Happy Hours.

The day was over and the only thing to do was drink some wine. I say some because this was in fact the third bottle of the afternoon. Having somewhat of a drinking issue, at least Isabella chose the best wine to share amongst friends. All that was left to do was to serve up the baguettes she made earlier with a lovely ripe blue cheese. Oh yeah – life is tough on the Granite Belt.

Isabella and The Missing Hikers.

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Isabella and The Missing Hikers.

The path seemed innocuous. Isabella had walked this area a million times before today but for some reason she hesitated, turned around and headed home. She later had heard that a man and woman had gone missing not that far from that resting place earlier that morning. They were found the next day – they weren’t lost – they just decided to go find a cafe on the other side of the ridge. Phew.

Isabella and The Season of Yellow Daisies.

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Isabella and The Season of Yellow Daisies.

Denying her hippie beginnings was a futile battle now that the coreopsis were in full bloom. Isabella quite happily tiptoed through the flowers knowing that whilst her allergies would cripple her frolicking, there was nothing more gorgeous as fields and fields of yellow daisies as far as the eyes could see. In the words of her niece – ‘it is like all of my dreams have come true’. Antihistamines helped Isabella enjoy the dreamy haze that is coreopsis season.