Recently I discovered, in the space of a couple of days, my mother has an eating disorder and my wife has been taken into a cult.

Firstly Edna, my mother, rings me from the cab rank at Ocean Street, where she had been waiting with her shopping for a taxi for over half an hour, with absolutely no luck.

Yes, she too has trouble with cabs, because this has happened to her a few times. This makes me wonder, is it the shortness of the trip and the subsequent low fare, because it can’t be the lack of cabs – there isn’t a shortage according to authorities and those that own existing licences.

Anyway, she just rings yours truly, who works around the corner, to come and transport her home.

Now on this particular day I was driving my absent son’s Hilux, happily running up some miles while he is overseas.

So on my arrival at the cab rank, there is the old girl with her trolley load of groceries, which I pitch in the back. Because of the height of the vehicle and the fact that, as always, I am in a hurry, I grab mum by the rear end and lift her into the front – much to the amusement of some ladies having coffee.

Did I mention that I was in a hurry?

When we got to her place, she tells me that while I carry the groceries in, she will make me a sandwich. When I get inside there is a ham and tomato burger, loosely described as something small, waiting for me.

While I am eating that, she brings out a wedge of cheddar about the size of a doorstop and says to have that as well. While I’m thinking I’m good to go, she asks if I would like some fruit cake.

As I head to the bathroom I hear “oops” and just catch mum scooping up the cake from the kitchen floor, in a professional flourishing manoeuvre like it had never happened. As I sat down to quickly shovel the cake into my mouth, I asked about the trip to the floor, and she replied: “The starving kids in Africa would eat it.”

I must admit she makes a pretty good cake, although this was bit grittier than usual.

Did I mention I was in a hurry?

The whole exercise, from phantom cab to being fed and toileted, happened in the space of 20 minutes. Talk about eating disorders. I reckon she has a deal with the local chemist, like a commission on Gaviscon.

Tupperware's no party

I have been married a while and it is possible that I don’t listen as attentively as I should. So the other day when my dear wife told me she was going to a party in Mooloolah at one of our older sons’ friend’s places, I presumed it was Tupperware and said, “that’s nice”, but was probably thinking more about television, a beer and a packet of Shapes with my name on them.

I paid about the same amount of attention the next day when she told me how good it was, until about a week later when I overheard a phone call about someone delivering something and talking about training.

I remember thinking “how much training do you need to close the lid on a plastic container?”

A couple of days later and there is all this stuff on the kitchen table and I am greeted by old mate with a yellow towel in her hand, telling me she has brought me a special present for my push bike – a tricky little yellow tea towel, apparently with the capacity of a beach towel to dry my rather large body.

The house was a sea of yellow and on inquiry I was told, “It wasn’t a Tupperware party you idiot, it was Enjo.”

It was bloody everywhere – no wonder they were ringing her up.

But I still didn’t get it when she was trying to explain that it lasts for about five years and you don’t need chemicals – or that’s what I thought she said.
For a couple of days I was under the impression there were environmentally friendly chemicals at work, but after another blast I was told it was cloths, shammies, mops etc ... just add water.

So since then, every day when I get home I am either getting a demo or retraining in cleaning stuff.

It’s like she has been hypnotised, although but I must say the product works a treat.

All I need now is for her to give it a go on mum’s kitchen floor.