I’m going to Heaven.

I was waiting at the counter in the hardware store the other day when a lovely elderly lady who was standing next to me asked the shopkeeper: “What potting mix do you have? I’m putting a vegie garden in.”

I turned to her and quipped: “It’s 35 degrees today. I wouldn’t be putting a vegetable garden in. You’ll end up dead.”

“I won’t,” said Veronica. “I’ve just been looking in the neighbours’ yards for odd pieces of timber to put around the edge.”

I don’t know what came over me but I blurted out: “You know I’ve probably got some spare timber at home that will suit. I’ll drop it off this afternoon.”

She gave me her address and told me to use the side gate.

I got back there at about 4.30pm wearing my black Zinc T-shirt, black jeans, black underpants, black socks and black boots and, yes, you’re right, I was really, really hot.

For the second time that day I was touched by the voice of God, who said: “I want you to put the vegie garden in for this stranger, Jamie.”

I carried in the timber and began banging in the half-dozen pegs I’d cut.

In that heat it wasn’t long before the sweat was stinging my eyes and dripping off the end of my nose.

After 40 minutes I had got all the timber in and level, only to stand up and see Veronica coming out of her house with an armful of 4-foot tomato stakes.

“I thought while you were here you could bang these in as well,” she suggested in her thickest and most disarming Manchester accent.

I dragged myself to her lounge room phone and dialled 000.

Bank fees

I know you think I’m filthy rich and my house is shaped like an Agro showbag and on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

Well, the fact is that this week my personal account was completely overdrawn and I now have the sum total of $26 in the bank.

What threw it out was a cheque for Stella’s schoolies accommodation for – wait for it – $850.

It was written without my knowledge. This resulted in the seven cheques that followed attracting a $30 fee each.

Dare I say, one of those cheques was for $8.20. I’m asking you: Who writes a cheque for $8.20?

Obviously the dopey Dunns.

You do the maths. I should be homeless and sleeping in a dumpster near you by Christmas.

It’s a sign

I followed a car through Pacific Paradise to Coolum Beach the other day.

On the back window was a sign that read: “Spirit within, I see ’em, I hear ’em. Clairvoyant – Skye Rose and a mobile number.”

I couldn’t help but think to myself that if Skye was a clairvoyant, not only would she have known that the great Jamie Dunn was behind her reading her sign, but that he desperately wanted to pass.

Yet another reader

It was nice to meet Maureen Barnes at the butchers.

She assured me my column was the first thing she read every Saturday and, naturally, me being me, I instantly believed her.

“Do you live local?” I asked. “Why yes,” she replied. “My house is the last one on the right before the bridge.”

I was quick to respond. “Oh yes, I know it,” I said. “It’s the one with the tractors and old trucks in the yard.”

Maureen agreed. “That’s it. If you look at the water tank, my husband has named the place El Dumpo.”

Thank you for reading, Mrs Barnes.

Youthful questions

When Josh was a toddler, he asked if I could buy something for him. I replied: “I can’t. I have no money on me.”

He turned his head slowly to the side like a playful puppy and said: “Can’t you just go and get some out of the wall in front of the bank?”

I might add he hasn’t changed a bit and is now 19.

Eleven-year-old Jackson seems to following in his footsteps.

We were at the shop together when he turned to me and asked: “Dad, where does money come from?”

Thank God for television because I thought for a moment, then turned to him and said: “Rabbits, son. It’s to keep the rabbits out.”