It’s Sunday night and instead of sitting around not watching 60 Minutes/Sunday Night or congratulating myself on making it through the holidays with only really losing my shit with the kids in the last few days, I’ve been standing around making rusks.Rusks are a hard South African biscuit they (South Africans) like to dip in their coffee/tea and then make wrong sexual noises whilst they eat them punctuated by lots of “Lekker’s” and head nodding. To be fair, these hard biscuits are bloody nice, but they’re a bit of a pain in the arse to make.
But make them I have for my ex-neighbours or The Muppets as I like to call them. Actually I usually refer to them as Those Fuckers but I’ve toned it down for the purposes of this blog and my quest not to swear like a feral trucker. We were on our trip last year near Wollongong when they told us they had sold their house and that we’d be back into our house a few weeks before they moved to Sydney, a 12 hour drive away. We were staying with friends when we heard, and I sat on their deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean and cried for about an hour, as though The Muppets had died or something.
Which they hadn’t: they were just moving away. And we are blessed with awesome neighbours in general, but this lot were special.
The Muppets had been my saviour when we’d first moved to the Sunshine Coast five years ago. They were my support network (Yes we’ll drop everything to come help you get that snake out of your garage), wonderfully bad influences (G&T sundowners on a random Tuesday anyone?), impromptu dinner partners, funny buggers and always up for a chat on just about anything, literally over the back fence. Everyday.
And now they live in Sydney, not a few metres away.
Being South African they loved these rusks and speaking to them last I mentioned that I’d been making and distributing them to my new best friends who lived nearby and hadn’t deserted me. Nope, not bitter at all. But since we’re in the grip of a cold snap and all the Queenslanders have travelled to Stanthorpe to see the ‘snow’, I’ve decided to send them a few.
I’ll write some sarcastic note about how they fell on the floor and that I really just wanted them to have to go to their dreaded Post Office to pick the parcel up. But my heart won’t be in the vitriol: I do miss those fucking Muppets. It doesn’t help that their replacements have the personalities of your Dad’s underwear but still… Good friends who happen to be neighbours are most definitely hard to find. And when you do, it won’t matter when they’ve moved away. Well it will actually but apparently I’ll get over it eventually. In the meantime I’ll spend Sunday night making them rusks whilst I sigh deeply.
Got neighbours you love? What do they do for you?