The day the dunny went bang.

The day the dunny went bang.

There was a break in the weather yesterday and we decided to go for ride to Fairlie for their New Year’s  Parade of floats, vintage cars, trucks and tractors of all sizes and shapes, harking back to the early 1900s.  Led by the McKenzie Highland Pipe Band, I’ve never seen such a display, it was fantastic.  Of course to get there we had to pass through Albury, my old home town.  It was a day for memories.

In passing the old home where I was born I couldn’t help but smile as  I recalled the ‘throne’ as we called the outhouse located  25 yards away, beside the raspberry patch.

This little story began with my dear old dad, he was always painting something, if not for himself, it was for some other resident around the village.  Now, in those days petrol was probably about the best at cleaning the paint off the brush, after all we did live next door to the service station.  What did dad clean his paint brushes with,… petrol of course.

On this particular day he was home early from a little job up the Mt Nessing Road.  After cleaning his brushes he seemed to get a sudden urge to visit the outhouse and sit on the throne for moment or two. 

Before planting his old bum on the wooden seat he poured the dregs of paint and petrol through the orifice into the hole below. 

It also gave him an opportunity to stoke up his favourite old pipe with Bears Dark tobacco, his favourite brand.  Rolling the flakes between his palms he then proceeded to thumb the softened tobacco into the bowl.  After striking a Beehive wax match, he got the old pipe steaming.  In the midst of another bout of lung wrenching coughing he leaned his old bum to one side and dropped the still flaming match into the dark below.  Within a second of the match flame reaching the petrol fumes, there was a loud noise; we all looked for the source, thinking dad had passed wind again.  Then we noticed the cloud of smoke coming from the throne, which had shifted about three feet to the left.  The door had been flung open and was hanging at a crazy angle by one hinge.  Midst the smoke dad was sitting there, pants down around his ankles, his glasses hanging from one ear, and his hat askew.  Poor old dad, his eyes as big as saucers in his smoke blackened face, appeared to be hanging onto the seat for grim death.                      He resembled a possum caught in the headlights.