For what was a poultry sum.
For what was a poultry sum.
“With eggs in limited supply and inflation a topic of the day, it’s perhaps not untimely to recall that, in post-World War I Germany, the price of a dozen eggs went from three marks to 4 billion marks in just a few months,” notes Don Bain of Port Macquarie. “Now that’s inflation!”
Lynette Silver of Wahroonga doesn’t see a polygraph or a klan meet when she looks at the POTUS John Hancock: “Trump’s signature (C8) brings to mind a seismograph reading created by a substantial earthquake.”
Stuart Garland of Yamba writes: “My grandmother’s autograph book (C8) has an entry dated 1913. ‘You ask for something original, something out of my head, I can’t give you anything from inside, so I give you something from outside instead.’ Glued inside is a lock of hair.”
“Just before the arrival of the Beatles on their 1964 Australian tour, enormous pressure from families and friends for their autographs was placed on the Fairfax photographic staff,” recalls former Herald snapper Trevor Dallen of Oyster Bay. “An impossible burden to expect of us while still fighting the media mosh pit to get our exclusive photos. Pre-tour autographed prints of the band had been sent to the media for early publicity, so a competition was held in the photographic department as to which photographer was best able to fake the Beatles’ signatures. With my simple writing style, I was not one of those chosen to compete in this deception.”
“Concerning Suzanne Saunders’ ‘improvements’ to my favoured breakfast (C8), all I can say is ‘that’s a bit posh, innit?’” remarks Susan Bradley of Eltham (Vic). It was, however, good enough for Jenny Archbold of Bellingen, who gushed: “Thank you, Susan! Lard. That’s what my fried bread has been lacking.”
“The mention of fried bread brought back memories of World War II,” says Barrie Restall of Teven. “We ate bread fried in beef tallow with salt and pepper – delicious, but you might as well inject goose fat straight into your heart.”
Martin Jack Hughes of Beacon Hill “worked at a restaurant with a fastidious boss who insisted shiny shoes (C8) were essential. I rocked up for five o’clock inspection after smearing butter on my gleaming boots. Passed muster, but the gleam only lasted for five minutes, and I was caught out. At the time, I uttered, ‘I can’t believe it’s not shoe polish’. I should get a patent.”
Column8@smh.com.au
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