18 November 2026
Wednesday. The cicadas are back. Millions of them, all singing at once, and every one of them a fan of mine. You can tell by the volume.
I have always said the sound of a dunny matters. Mine has cicadas, a breeze in the gum leaves, the thwack of Bev on the woodpile and, now and then, a voice explaining what’s going on. It’s all in English. Kev says only one person in each group needs to be any good at reading it, which is lucky, because some of the tour groups are mostly good at shouting.
A group of mates came through today and one of them didn’t hear so well. Didn’t slow them down a bit. The others passed on what the voice said, he spotted everything they missed, and they got on like a house on fire. A dunny is a team sport. Always has been.
Some of the overseas visitors ask for the story in their own language. Kev says that’s not on offer yet. I have offered to translate personally, with gestures. Kev says the gestures are the problem.
Smoko barked at a cicada for an hour this arvo. Cicada won.
— Huge Axeman
