Rented a car this morning for the drive up to Brisbane.  Turns out Hyundai makes the southern hemisphere equivalent of the Vauxhall Blindspot.  So that'll be fun to wobble around in, assuming I survive the week.

The sales lady at RedSpot, the auto rental company named for what may soon become in one of their cars, was incredibly helpful.  She was downright happy, in fact, to rent me a "newie," although she warned I should be careful about reckless "truckies" on my way up to "Briz."

Australians talk this way a lot.  It's not some sort of debilitating neural malfunction, nor the inability to pronounce the second half of their own words which sadly afflicts the French.  It's actually a delightful habit of giving affectionate nicknames to every single thing in the universe, constantly.

These nicknames ("nickos") usually end in an "-ie" or an "-o" sound, but often include an "-er," "-s", or a bonus "-azza."

Thus, my first meal here was a "brekkie" centered around a "chokko" "bikkie."  When I dropped my sunglasses, by the time they were returned, they had become "sunnies."  And the lady at my hotel front desk actually started calling me "Bobbo."  Although I think she was joking, because she'd heard me comment on the nickos.

Even the cricket team indulges: for the next match, played at the "Gabba" (not to be confused with "Subi," the "Waca," or the "G"), players won't wear their own surnames, but diminutives like "Punter," "Marto," and "Brecks." 

Not surprisingly, their uptight British opponents are frowning, which is to say (if I am getting the hang of this) that the uppy Brittos are all frowners.  (Actually, I'm not certain that's what any actual Australian would say, even at gunpointies.  But you get the idea.)

It's the sort of cheerful habit that could make even tragic news seem perfectly fine.  I wouldn't be surprised to hear some "fresher" home from "uni" who had forgotten to wear "screenie" on his "skinno" might breeze into the kitchen and lightly tell mum that he now has a large "melanomazza" which has gone all "maliggie," with smiles all around.

This would sink in somewhat.  Then he and his mum would play rugby in the hall while eating meat pies.  

Then, after mum had won 25-24 by throwing an elbow on the last point, he would break the sad news that his "cance-o" would require "surgers" down at the "hospie" and that "dokkos" only gave him eight "weekies" to "liverazza."

After which, he would turn out to be fine.  No worries.  He'd be back on his feet, playing meat-pie hallway rugby with mummer again in no time.

Because it's like that down here.

You really, really have to spend some time in Australia.