I was shopping in Nambour – yes, I’m the one – actually, I was at Nambour Army Disposals looking for some more sniper gear to add to my 11-year-old Jackson’s camouflage attire and believe it or not, Nambour Disposals is run by the same people that ran Maroochydore Disposals before it was disposed of.

So desperate are they to make money, one of the blokes works at the coffee shop over the road – Jessie Moo’s.

As a result, while I was rummaging through the $25 a metre anti-tank rubber camouflage material, one of the boys suddenly stepped through the uniforms with a strong skinny flat white.

Truly, it’s one of the tastiest coffee’s I’ve ever had and I didn’t even see it coming.

Moving the dial just a little

Well, I suppose you’ve read by now that I’ve well and truly gone from Zinc FM and I am joining the ranks of 4BC in Brisbane with my friends Courtney and Ian.

I had fully intended to go the distance at Zinc for a straight five years with another five years on offer after that, but it wasn’t to be.

I suppose if you knew my father George who, I might add, was president of the Woombye Bowls Club, you would understand my relentless, unforgiving attitude to success and work ethic.

I am so proud that we were able to give so much back to the community through our show, in particular the Gympie Special School who have certainly won my heart since their Christmas pageant three years ago.

As far as radio goes, I guess in the end we agreed to disagree and moving on is a part of life.

I may not be on the radio up here any more but I’m certainly not shifting from the Sunshine Coast or the Daily (so they tell me).

Flat out being macho
Okay, that was me on the side of the road in my really big Landrover Defender, so big in fact that sooky-la-la me couldn’t even change his own tyre.

It was so embarrassing, I felt like a girl (no phone calls please).

I rang the RACQ and between Peter and Chris the Clayton’s towing guy, it was changed within five minutes of their arrival.

I stood back in the darkness gently sobbing for I had been outed.

Yes, I bought a man truck, yes, it’s covered with man spotties, yes, it’s got a snorkel in case of flooding and yes, it’s ex-army and yes, it’s Dark Vader black and no – I can’t change the tyres by myself.

<b<The Jackson Dunn saga, Part I

While at McDonalds with my two sons Max and Jackson, Max made a joke.

“I’ve got to go to the McLoo,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered, “I’ve got to go too. I’m starting to McFidget.”

Jackson, 11, who was born on the wind and goes where it takes him, decided to come for the walk.

Exactly six steps later I was in front of the urinal and Max had shut himself in the cubicle for privacy.

Jackson stood behind me humming a tune and looking around.

Suddenly he said, “What the…”

I looked back over my shoulder and asked, “What is it?”

He was looking to his left and said, “Why does that say England, dad?”

I looked at what he was looking at and replied, “It says engaged, son.”

God give me Mcstrength.
The Jackson Dunn saga, Part II
At the markets, army-mad Jackson found a toy Rambo knife, complete with fishing line and compass in the handle for survival.

“Oh please please please please please please please please dad, can I – would you– buy it for me?”

Now, I’ve always been the type of father who buys his children’s love with presents and cuts out the middle man.

It’s so much easier than actually having to work for it, so $20.00 and it was his.

He was so excited that when we got home, he and I had to sit and watch First Blood so we could see Rambo where he began.

I was asleep by the end of the movie, but I woke up quickly enough with Jackson holding his knife across my throat and gutturally whispering, “Let it go, sheriff, just let it go.”