Cocky is lockied in, and chicken chow mein raises a startled head

Following on from out-of-season Easter eggs, Simon Andrew of Kincumber reports that the local supermarket has been trying to rescue a cockatoo that has flown into the store and cannot get out. “It squawks at the shoppers, chews on the cables in the ceiling and particularly enjoys the fresh bread section. Many rescue attempts have failed, so I say, move over, Easter Bunny, we have a new attraction.”

It seems that the telex had some staying power. Jane Craig of Holt in the ACT wants it known that “In the 1980s, my darling and I each worked in offices that had telexes, and we’d send each other messages, sometimes with him at ‘his’ telex and me at ‘mine’. Although telexes don’t feature any more, and we often use modern tech, I’m happy to say we’re still going strong and communicating well almost forty years later.”

Returning to food, Kate Coates of Wangi Wangi writes, “We were a large family of modest means and my mother would make savoury beef mince with lots of diced veggies, fresh from my father’s extensive garden. For some perplexing reason, it was always called chicken chow mein. She would regularly make a little extra for ‘the man who comes over the hill’, a reference, I believe, from her 1930s childhood in Hargraves, when her mother shared with those tramping the road or otherwise in need.”

Andrew Brown, of the charmingly named Bowling Alley Point, says: “Last week I heard the local cafe owner, when a pre-teen boy pointed at a rock cake and asked what it was, respond with, ‘It’s a fly cemetery’. It was purchased with glee and he ran out to his mum to tell her what he had bought. ‘Column 8?’ I smilingly asked, and received a nod and a wink.”

Squashed things remind Kerry Ryan of Rozelle that “My four-year-old grandson has a liking for Scotch Finger biscuits but misheard the name. To him, and now all of us, they are ‘squashed fingers’.”

Dorothy Gliksman of Cedar Brush Creek adds, “Stories of ‘fly biscuits’ and ‘passionfruit pips’ remind me of when I would buy my much-loved Hungarian poppy rolls to serve to friends. Invariably they would ask, ‘What are the tiny black things?’, to which I would reply, with a straight face, ‘They are ants; isn’t it delicious?’ Nine times out of 10, I was believed.”

To end with, Les Shearman of Darlington says, “Column Ate is giving me noshtalgia.”

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