24/09/2026
Righto. Fair suck of the sav, we've gotta have a yarn about this mongrel.
(Fair suck of the sav = roughly “come on, be reasonable”. Sav = saveloy. Why a processed sausage became involved in demanding fairness is a question for Australian linguists and possibly the police.)
There's a magpie on one of my morning walking tracks.
Now, don't get me wrong, I bloody LOVE magpies.
Beaut birds, they are. Smart as bu**ery, too. And that gorgeous warble they do basically says:
Yep. You're in the land down under.
Most of the year they're mooching around looking for worms and bugs, singing their beautiful little songs and generally being deadset legends of the neighbourhood.
Then spring rolls around.
And apparently someone flicks the switch from:
🌿 Charming Australian icon
to:
I WILL FU***NG END YOU.
So there I am, out bright and early walking Cora.
No sunnies on me, mate.
I've been making a point of getting outside into the morning light because light is one of the biggest signals your noggin uses to sort out your body clock, and there's some bloody ripper research linking higher daytime light exposure with a lower risk of dementia later down the track when you're an old codger.
(Noggin = head. Codger = old person. We've apparently decided perfectly serviceable English words aren't enough.)
So I'm strolling along feeling dead chuffed with myself.
Look at me.
Walking the dog.
Getting my light.
Keeping my circadian rhythm sweet.
A picture of health and longevity, I tell ya.
WHACK.
Fu***ng magpie.
Comes screaming in from behind us, right out of nowhere.
I jump clean out of my bloody skin.
Cora, meanwhile, responds to an airborne assassination attempt in the only way Cora knows how:
I SHALL EAT IT.
She launches herself vertically into the air like a bloody rocket.
Problem is, she's attached to me.
The lead yanks.
I stumble.
And suddenly my healthy little dementia-prevention stroll has become an excellent opportunity to acquire a traumatic brain injury.
We get ourselves sorted. Bit of composure back.
The magpie circles.
AND THE BASTARD COMES BACK FOR ANOTHER GO.
The thing's got a vendetta.
At this point I should probably explain the photo.
Yes. I'm wearing a pushy helmet with cable ties sticking out of it.
(Pushy = bicycle. Apparently “bicycle” had far too many syllables for Aussies.)
And no, I haven't finally lost the plot.
This is an actual thing you'll see around Australia during magpie season.
We put cable ties sticking out of bike helmets to try to discourage the swooping little bastards from getting quite so close to our heads.
Just contemplate that for a moment, international friends.
OUR BIRDS ARE SO FU***NG AGGRESSIVE THAT EVERY SPRING OTHERWISE NORMAL AUSTRALIANS START ATTACHING PLASTIC SPIKES TO THEIR HEADS.
And nobody here thinks this is particularly strange.
We just look at each other and go:
“Magpies, eh?”
“Yeah mate.”
Then carry on with our day.
😂
The helmet itself is bloody useful too because, as hubby was about to demonstrate, getting cracked in the noggin by an angry magpie is no small thing.
Cora launches again.
I nearly go arse over tit again.
(Arse over tit = falling spectacularly. Neither anatomical feature is required to actually pass over the other.)
And somewhere in all of this I realise…
There was a bloody sign.
A MAGPIE SWOOPING sign.
Did I spot it?
NO.
I HAD THE BLOODY MORNING LIGHT IN MY PEEPERS.
😂
(Peepers = eyes. We're very fond of giving body parts ridiculous names.)
And look, I can't really blame the little fella.
He's just looking after his nest and his mob.
(Mob = your people/family/group. Nobody has joined organised crime.)
I get it.
I'm a parent myself.
My kids are all grown up and I'm STILL basically a magpie.
Someone threatens one of my kids and I'll be coming out of a gumtree at 60 kilometres an hour aiming for their fu***ng eyeballs too.
Have you ever actually LOOKED into a magpie's eyes during swooping season?
They don't look at you.
They look straight through your noggin and INTO YOUR SOUL.
They locate your weak spots.
They clock your escape route.
Then they reckon:
Yep. That'll do.
DIVE BOMB.
And because Australia apparently looked at the rest of the world's wildlife and thought “Yeah nah, needs more aggro,” our Aussie magpie isn't even closely related to the Northern Hemisphere birds also called magpies.
(Yeah nah = no. Nah yeah = yes. Aggro = aggressive. Welcome to Australia, where even agreeing with someone requires subtitles.)
And ours are deadset famous for this particular springtime brand of neighbourhood terrorism.
Of course they bloody are.
This particular magpie is no mug either.
(No mug = not stupid. Nothing whatsoever to do with drinking vessels.)
I warned hubby:
DO NOT WALK DOWN THAT ROAD.
Did he listen?
Nah.
Hubby hoofed it down there anyway and came home with blood pouring down his forehead.
(Hoofed it = went/walked. No hooves were involved. He's not a horse.)
The magpie had cracked him a good one.
About an inch — that's old-person centimetres — from his bloody peeper.
And then it hit me…
THIS ISN'T MY FIRST MAGPIE RODEO.
When I was a little tacker, I hopped off the school bus one arvo and had to leg it past a paddock.
(Little tacker = child. Arvo = afternoon. Paddock = field. Honestly, at this point I'm basically bilingual.)
There was a ripper of a mulberry tree there.
(Ripper = excellent. Nobody has been disembowelled.)
So naturally I pulled up and scoffed some.
(Scoffed = ate. Not mocked. Context is doing some very heavy lifting here.)
And if you've ever eaten mulberries straight off a tree, you'll know that you don't so much eat them as leave the scene looking like you've participated in a small homicide.
Purple lips.
Purple chin.
Probably purple fingers.
So I'm wandering home.
Then out of a bloody gumtree comes…
MAGPIE.
SWOOP.
CRACK.
Right in the noggin.
And F**K ME, it stung like a bastard.
So I did what any calm, rational child would do.
I completely lost my s**t and BOLTED HOME.
Burst through the front door.
Mum looks up.
And what does she bloody see?
Her kid standing there…
BLOOD POURING FROM HER HEAD.
Purple smeared all over her mouth and chin.
Sobbing her heart out.
Reckon there was a split second where Mum thought:
WHAT THE F**K HAS HAPPENED TO THE KID?!
Nah.
Just arvo tea and Aussie wildlife.
😂
(Arvo tea = afternoon snack. Not necessarily tea. Australia continues its campaign against linguistic clarity.)
Anyway.
There actually IS a ripper bit of biology underneath my current decision to risk aerial assault every morning.
Light is one of the strongest environmental signals for our circadian system — basically the internal timing system that helps sort out your sleep, hormones, alertness and a whole heap of other biological bits and bobs.
(Bits and bobs = assorted stuff. The scientific precision here is breathtaking.)
And get this.
A ripper prospective study came out this year that followed more than 87,000 punters and found that people getting more bright daytime light had a lower subsequent risk of dementia down the track.
(Punters = people. Unless you're at the races, in which case things get complicated.)
That's an association, not proof that hoofing it outside in the morning prevents dementia, mind you.
And the research certainly doesn't say:
TEN MINUTES WITHOUT YA SUNNIES AND YOU'RE SWEET AS, LOVE.
(Sweet as = all good. Sweet as WHAT? Nobody knows. The sentence simply ends there.)
Humans are way more complicated than that.
But getting outside into natural light during the day — especially earlier on, to help anchor your body clock — is a deadset simple thing our biology just gets.
One VERY important heads-up though:
DO NOT LOOK AT THE SUN.
This is Australia.
The sun here isn't your mate.
I'm talking about being OUTSIDE IN THE DAYLIGHT, not staring directly at the giant nuclear fireball in the sky until your eyes turn to toast.
So tomorrow morning I'll be back out there.
Getting some daylight.
Walking Cora.
Keeping my body clock in check.
And keeping one eye on the gumtrees for the feathered psychopath who reckons he owns the road at the moment.
Which, now that I think about it, probably isn't doing my nervous system any favours.
Humans are deadset weird.
Australian wildlife?
Fu***ng weirder. 😂🧬
