While Not Working

Our current home owners were very clear where they stood on the subject of walking a 66 kilo Great Pyrenees with a feline attitude towards authority. "Don't!" they said. "He only goes to the dog park. Drive him there. In our car. Here's the keys." The dog park is a new experience for me.  All prior pets were exercised in the conventional manner, requiring me to put in as much effort as them and possibly double given I have half as many legs. Added to that most of our prior pets, while nice to me, had little-dog attitudes which could have been problematic in the pack hierarchy of the dog park. I've discovered a whole new world down at the dog park: a social circle based on watching dogs be dogs and a human pecking order based on who's been coming the longest, who spends the most time at the dog park, and a no doubt a whole heap of nuances of which I am, and intend to remain, blissfully ignorant. Surveying the park, protecting against pigeon incursi

 I've joined the CWA. No, not the venerable organisation reknowned for baking cakes, keeping the nuts and bolts of country life ticking over in thousands of tiny country halls all around the country, and providing seaside holiday houses for land-bound country families.  That CWA is busy reinventing itself with younger Country Women, dropping the cake-baking stereotype, and moving with the times.  Good on them, but that's not the one I've joined. Welcome to Cycling Without Age. On such days as I (and Roger) am rostered I pedal myself down to a shed near the parklands and wake a large electric trishaw from its slumber.  Along with my fellow pilot I trundle the trishaw across the busy West Terrace and down to Bonythen Park where a bus from one of Adelaide's residential aged care facilities waits for us.  We load four usually-willing and often slightly nervous geriatrics into the trishaw, tuck them in with warm blankets and beanies, and head off along the river into the ci