Yesterday I went with the nippers to the nearest big town and at 11.30am the temperature was 43C, can you imagine. It was hard even to walk from the car to the shops but we had to go because we were on the hunt for Chocko Monkey.

Actually there is no such thing. I think its real name is Yogo, or something like that but the kids have always called it Chocko Monkey because some tubs used to have a picture of a monkey on it, for some obscure reason. It’s a yogurt-type thing made with chocolate. I don’t let them have it very often because the makers squeeze the contents of an entire sugar cane field into every tub, but now and again it’s okay, especially considering they probably burn it off quicker than a bushfire.
Speaking of which, the one near us has eventually been put out. Apparently it was started by someone torching an abandoned car, you know, as you do.
Last night the firies, as they are called here, had to take their trucks and stuff to another fire down in the valley which destroyed some houses and cars as it swept towards a village. Seems like that’s under control too now but it took 250 firefighters and two aircraft dumping water to stop it.
We had some rain last night and today the temp is unlikely to go above 27, which is good. I woke up this morning at 5am shivering, can you believe.
Anyway, back to the Chocko Monkey. We went into the supermarket, the kids chanting, Chocko Monkey, Chocko Monkey, but they’d had a power cut sometime before and had emptied the cooler shelves. When we got there they were just starting to restock the shelves.
“Where’s the Chocko Monkey?” asked Five.
This old woman with those watery eyes looked at him and said, “What’s that luv?”
“Chocko Monkey,” said Three. “We want Chocko Monkey.”
“Oh yes,” said the woman, who stood up and shouted down the row of shelf packers, “Where’s the Chocko Monkey?”
They all looked at her, apart from one especially vacant bulbous one who was grunting and hitching her trousers like she was wrestling with herself.
“We don’t sell monkeys,” whinnied one acned youth. They all looked at him. His spots glowed.
“I said,” shouted the woman, “where are the Chocko Monkeys?”
A big smiling fat bloke, you know, the sort who thinks there’s a career here in this place, or maybe in this department (Head of Shelf Stocking and Replenishment - Spreads, maybe) came up all sprightly.
“Maeve, we’re clean out of Rocko Chunkeys at the moment but I’ll put a requistion 842 in now,” and he winked at her, “in triplicate, Maeve, and we should have them in sometime next week.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“Dad,” said Five, “I’ve changed my mind. Can we have Rocko Chunkeys instead?”