Free Impractical Jokes by Charlie Pickering Page A

off. What happened after that was pretty much up for grabs. There were clear signs of a struggle, evidence of confusion and frustration and an overall sense that what had gone on in this room was not the happiest of times. The other conclusion that was drawn from forensic inspection was that while the papered walls had been of little use to my sister for removing nappy contents from her hands, seagrass matting had worked a treat. Not a single swirling gap in the seagrass weave went unfilled. Every square would need to be cut out, removed and, I dare say, incinerated.
    The room was repaired, but never felt the same. We would continue to go to Flinders, but somehow the magic had worn off. You can burn all the nag champa you like, but you’ll never deodorise a memory. Deep down I’m pretty sure that’s why they sold the house.

7
    Misinformation, Disinformation
and Goddamned Lies
    B ack to 1987 and we returned home from our trip to Flinders to find that Richard had put our house on the market.
    It was late at night, dark, and we were tired from the journey. We pulled into our driveway and the headlights hit the front gate only to find it chained shut and adorned with a real estate agent’s sign that read:
    MORTGAGEES’ AUCTION:
DUE TO DISASTROUS BUSINESS PRACTICES AND PENDING LEGAL ACTION FOR MEDICAL NEGLIGENCE, ALL PROPERTY OF RONNIE ‘THE BASTARD’ PICKERING IS TO BE SOLD FORTHWITH.
    My sister and I were confused. My mum was beside herself. This was a public relations disaster. Upon seeing the sign, Mum immediately assumed that everyone in the street had been talking about her behind her back.
    â€˜Did you hear about the Pickerings?’
    â€˜Didn’t they go belly-up?’
    â€˜Yes. I hear it was gambling.’
    â€˜Well I hear it was drugs.’
    â€˜Well I hear they gambled on drugs .’
    â€˜You don’t say?’
    â€˜Yes. They’d get hopped up on goof-pills that Ron made in the pharmacy and then hit the craps tables at the casino.’
    â€˜Well I’m glad they’ve had to sell up. It’s a danger having those sorts of people living in our street .’
    This may sound ridiculous, but I think it is a fairly accurate transcript of what was going through my mother’s head at the time. She had always aimed for our family to have a good ‘street reputation’; a goal that flew in the face of any rational assessment of our street community.
    When my parents first moved in they made a grand overture to the neighbourhood: the first (and only) ever ‘Get To Know Your Street Barbecue’. They figured they would start a tradition. Twenty years on people would spend their year looking forward to the street barbecue. ‘Remember the first one of these we had?’ people would say. ‘Yes,’ other people would reply. ‘It was the Pickerings that started all this. They held the first ever Get To Know Your Street Barbecue, and haven’t we all just been the best of friends since?’
    Initial disappointment came with the underwhelming level of RSVPs. When final numbers were tallied in order to calculate supplies, it was agreed that a more accurate name for the event would have been the ‘Get To Know Upwards Of A Quarter But Definitely No More Than A Third Of Your Street Barbecue’.
    By midway through the event my parents began to wish the attendance had been poorer. It became apparent there were some seriously long-running feuds in operation in our leafy street. The evidence for this included the numerous people making vigorous, pointed attempts to be seen to be not talking to other people, or making a noteworthy exit upon the arrival of a neighbourhood nemesis. That kind of behaviour and the one woman who actually said, ‘I have some seriously long-running feuds in operation.’
    By the end of the barbecue my parents concluded that there was one person in particular that everybody had a problem with but, apart