Cuteybum and I were wondering through David Jones, suddenly confronted by those old dears you get behind the till. Starved of conversation, they like nothing more than a good natter, a few prying questions, and displaying a little bit of motherly love. Honestly, I felt like I was their son.
Then, in another department store, a similar woman loitered around us, just aching to be motherly in the same way. It was like this EVERYWHERE. You can hear them from afar. ‘Can I help you?’ But you have to understand, their voices are out-of-control. They waver up and down transcending the octaves, like fruity sounding birds in the rainforest chattering amongst themselves and occasionally bickering. We’ve been calling them our Tropical Birds.
At a wedding last night, I asked someone if there is a name for this sort of characteristic. ‘Shop Sharon – you’ve not heard that famous Aussie term?’ Actually, I’m not even sure it’s Aussie. Still, Cuteybum and I prefer our slang, Tropical Birds. They feast on the forest flowers.