Talking Story

When I was asked to join this merry band I wondered what the hell do they want me for?

An old fart stuck half a world away, rambling on about things that happened a lifetime ago.

In a way though that's the essence of talking story. Sharing yarns and laughs when lives intersect for a few free moments, we remind ourselves that we are alive.

My dear old dad always said never spoil a good story by sticking to the truth, and when I think back on all his tales of a childhood in the outback I find myself wondering which bit was true and which bit was a bit of colour to add to the mayhem he was often describing.

For me, well, I think he's right. If it was exactly the same every time you told it it'd fade with the telling, and get a bit boring too, but when you massage them, have a play, even mix them up a bit... no wonder I was getting confused when he'd retell one of the old tales.

Hang on.... I thought you blew up the tree full of cockatoos after you set the speed record from Broken Hill to Adelaide.

So next time I drop back and really try to talk story, be it the time I dropped in on Mickey Dora and lived to tell the tale, or the time my mate and I lived on brussel sprouts for so long you could have lit up half of north west Spain on our farts, you'll know, for sure, I was telling the absolute truth.

Like the chap below. My mate Markie, and how he surfed 80 foot waves in the Southern Ocean.

But that's another story.