Water wisdom kicks the bucket
30th August, 2006

The bucket looked familiar and after a moment I realised that the last time I'd held one it had been brimful with nappies. They were my cousin's son's dirty nappies, and I clearly remember being told to take the bucket to the laundry and tip the contents into a tub. I carried out this task with more gusto than was prudent, tossing the whole, evil smelling mess into the tub with such force it ricocheted. Had my mouth been open, matters could have been a lot worse. As it was, the contents executed a perfect U-turn and draped themselves over my head and shoulders. I dry retched for 30 minutes and stood under the shower for another 30 but I still smelt like a toilet, much to the amusement of my twin sister. Now I stood beside my parents' garden tap watching the very same bucket fill with water, the result of having volunteered to help my father 'bucket" his garden. "It used to be a nappy bucket," he said as I watched it fill with water. "I know," I said, trying to block out the memory of being drenched in baby poo all those years ago. There was a time when the path to an evening of peace and tranquillity was gained through the twin portals of garden hose and beer bottle. Booze in one hand, hose in the other, I would celebrate the close of day by giving the garden of our share-house what my dear old grandmother was wont to describe as "a good soaking", while enjoying a quiet beer. I challenge anyone to sip alcohol while hauling a nappy bucket full of water from tap to garden. After ten bucketloads, the novelty of being a law-abiding Brisbane citizen had worn gauze-thin. By then I had discovered that there was a knack to bucketing. Do not attempt, for example, to toss the water towards the rear of the garden by swinging the bucket, for you will discover that the centrifugal force you generate will lead to one of a number of unwanted results. Scenario one will see you flying through the air still hanging on to the bucket and landing among the rose bushes. This will spell an end to bucketing for the day as you will spend several hours at the emergency centre of your local hospital being repaired, presuming they've managed to find an overseas graduate of the Doctors-R-Us on-line university to staff it for a few hours. Scenario two sees the weight of the water swinging you through 180 degrees, meaning you miss the garden completely and toss your precious bucketload of water on the lawn or over any person reckless enough to stand behind you. Trying to convince this person that you did not do this on purpose can waste precious bucketing time and place a strain on relationships. I sincerely doubt that this Third World strategy actually saves any water, given the amount that spills at the tap, and slops out of the bucket while you are carrying it across the lawn. By the time I'd finished, the area around the tap was a quagmire, I was drenched from the waist down, was certain one arm had become longer than the other, was beginning to walk with a stoop and my back ached. I wondered if Premier Beattie got a sore back from bucketing and guessed that he doesn't. "What we need is a donkey," I said. "We get a dozen nappy buckets and hang them off the donkey, then fill them up and walk the donkey around the yard and empty the buckets as he goes." About four days later, my father told me he had just been granted a dispensation to hose for a couple of hours every Sunday. "I could probably water the neighbour's garden," he said. "Brilliant!" I replied. "You can hang a sign around your neck advising passers-by that you have a disabled person's waiver and you can water everyone's garden." "I'll be the neighbourhood hoser," said Dad, warming to the idea. "Maybe you could rent yourself out," I said. "You could be a rent-a-hoser. Have Disability Card - Will Travel." I'm prepared to concede that there may be flaws in my rent-a-hoser scheme, but the donkey plan, I feel sure, has merit.

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