I had called into Foodworks at the back of Coolum, down by the roundabout, to pick up half a chicken and a pie – I told you I was on a special diet – when I glanced over to see a man thumbing through the glossies.

Oh my God, I thought, it’s Richard D Chazal, dress designer to the stars and king of the fashionistas (I think they are a group of South American mercenaries that sew).

There I was with torn T-shirt, dusty jeans and old RM William boots, and there he was looking state-of-the-art, even when grocery shopping.

Worst of all was that he parked his gleaming, shiny, spotless, black 4WD right behind my dirty, filthy, stinkin’, spotlight-rusted, pig-shooting Landrover Defender, which shrieked: “My owner is a banjo-playing red-necked slob.”

I prayed for deliverance from being so embarrassingly underdressed in such stellar company.

Coolum is certainly becoming a haven for celebrities, though. The last time I was at Charcoal Chicken, I was standing in the line behind Ray Martin.

Veronica’s revenge

You may remember last week I told you about a lovely lady who was standing beside me at the hardware store and how I dropped off some timber to her and framed her vegie garden in 35-degree heat.

Well, the story doesn’t stop there.

I went back to the hardware store for some more supplies, only to find the guy behind the counter rummaging around in a drawer before handing me a $20 gift voucher that Veronica had left there to surprise me.

I was completely taken aback. I mean, come on Veronica, I did about 100 bucks worth of work.

Playing heir guitar

I tend to live my life through my children, and in keeping with that tradition I have bought them all guitars and arranged for them to have guitar lessons.

That’s what I always wanted, so why not them?

Jackson was trying to find a way to tell me that he didn’t want to continue with them.

I felt bad in that I may have forced him to do something that he really didn’t want to do.

“Dad,” he said, “I suck at guitar.”

I decided to let him off the hook and said: “Yes, you do, son. Why don’t you stop.”

Tyred of toads

I think I told you last week that I knew it was summer because my eight-year-old daughter, Poppy, became stranded barefoot in a bindii patch.

Well, just lately I’ve been given another sign and that is the re-appearance of the cane toad.

I keep seeing more and more of them each week. Just the other day I was hurtling along the back blocks of the Mary Valley when there on the road ahead of me was a cane toad just slightly smaller than Bob Abbot, without the braces.

Now I know that the RSPCA would have me pull over and ask it nicely to get into the bag so that I could then lay it in my freezer while playing it some soothing classical music so that it may leave this world peacefully after dropping off into a deep sleep.

However, I took aim and headed straight towards it.

The toad’s stony-like gaze did not change. He was brave until the end.

I’m sorry, people, when it comes to toads, I’m the kinda guy that lets his tyres do the talking.

Holy guacamole

Hooray! The new square-about with traffic lights is now open.

I get a sense that it’s not going to work. I was a passenger in a car on approach to it the other day when my not-so-confident female co-driver was heard to exclaim: “What the *#@$ do I do here.”

Dog of a day

Yes, I got a cattle dog puppy.

The upside is you’ve got someone who loves you no matter what.

The downside was when I got up at 3.30 on Wednesday morning, the first thing that happened that day as I stepped out of bed was my foot landed in a freshly deposited steaming dog turd.

You tend to lose your dignity if you have to hop to the shower. And believe me, the day went downhill from there.