This tome was commenced in late 2016 when, after retiring from full time work and before I had committed myself to a couple of days a week as a catechist teaching scripture to Catholic children at local state public primary schools under the auspices of St John Bosco Parish, I found myself with time on my hands.
I honestly can’t tell you why I started it but as my ramblings emerged I thought that it could be of interest to my children to learn things about me that I’m sure they don’t know. Some of it they know of course if they were involved.
The title of this memoir may be confusing to those who aren’t aware of a story I have become infamous for relating whenever I get a responsive audience. It concerns the history of my totally non-existent first three wives and is told with a sad expression and mournful tone. The longer it takes to build suspense the better but briefly this is how it goes.
“I was married quite young and Mary and I were just 21. We had a small farm outside of Townsville and at the bottom of the paddock grew a batch of wild mushrooms. Now, I don’t eat mushrooms but Mary did and a few months after our marriage she picked a bunch and boiled them up for herself.
Within 24 hours she was dead!
Now this was long time ago and there were no such things as post mortems, so life just went on.
About three years later, I married again and this time Cynthia did the same as Mary, picking the mushrooms and boiling them up, and she suffered the same fate.
At this point some in the audience may be becoming a bit suspicious so a sob doesn’t go astray. This usually allays their fears.
Then, “My third wife died of massive head injuries!”
And in answer to the querulous looks,
“SHE WOULDN’T EAT THE MUSHROOMS”
