On Howling

No, my discographically sharp, shiny-domed ex-neighbour – not a dissertation on the 1984 Ramones track that clearly should have been a top 10 hit … mind you any song with sha-la-la-la-la in the chorus should be a pop sensation. Nor is this a reflection on the benchmark werewolf flick from the early 80’s. (By the way Baldilocks, please trim the hedges or I’ll let your new neighbours give them the Crusty trim that you may well recall.)

This is in fact a discourse on the sounds of The Island.

It must now be winter on The Island. It has only been 29 – 30 degrees the past 3 days. (That’s about 84 degrees Jeb.) The effects of this cold snap are dramatic. Masks are back on in the work place. Natives mistakenly expecting sweltering, 33-degree heat, are forgetting their jumpers (those are “sweaters” for you, Daisy Mae) – and they are all coming down with terrible colds.

Now, I must digress for some readers. A literary citation is required, so I refer to the O.S. Dictionary: Hock a Loogie (v): “to cough up a phlegm wad. Loogie is pronounced with a hard G.”

And back to our story … so, despite their penchant for spotless parks, cleanly streets and tidy tubes (it’s a subway, Billy Bob), it would appear that it is perfectly acceptable to make the most horrific noises in public places. In fact I think it may well be encouraged to share with those around you the repeated, staccato, guttural attempts to extract a goober from the depths of the nasal passages.

Mind you, the most fun part of hocking a loogie is never shared. Apparently spitting is frowned upon here on The Island. In fact, it may well be illegal.

Speaking of things that should be illegal ... I can confirm that the shared nasal and throat harmonies are not the most offensive sounds that I have so far experienced.

There is a hawker centre affectionately known at my work as the “far away” food place. It is bloody hard to describe how to get there. But once you arrive at this bustling kingdom full of steaming hot, spicy chilli dishes, you encounter quite possible the best set of lungs on the planet. (No Cletus, I am not referring to her twinkies.)

I nearly had a heart attack upon my first visit when I returned to the table with my mystery fish fried rice dish, and what I mistook for the 400 year old cleaner came up and asked in broken English (well gestures) what I wanted to drink. “An iced lemon tea, please.” She stands up (not really much of a height improvement from when she was leaning over) and at the top of the most extraordinary voice screams out my iced tea order in screeching Mandarin to some poor husband – who I gather was 14 kilometres down the road. Although I am now deaf in my left ear, it was the best $1 that I have spent so far.