My sister asked her Miss Nearly-three what sort of cake she would like for her impending birthday. Her mother hopefully showed her a picture of a cake in the theme of her new all time favourite television show “Bluey” (her psychopathic devotion to “Peppa Pig” having waned of late).

“Nah!” said my niece. “I want a FAIRY cake”

… And in that moment the family circle was complete.

Miss Nearly-three’s grandmother had been required to play a fairy in a school play back in her kindergarten days. She had not wanted to play a fairy… she wanted to be the farmer. So when her moment in the spotlight came, out she stomped on stage and delivered her line:

“I’m THE GOOD FAIRY” she snarled.

It was a performance never to be forgotten.

But the family’s connection with the sylvan world went back much further than my mother’s generation. Her paternal grandparents both died before she was born but in their day they were great socialites and hosted many genteel garden parties at their Fremantle residence somewhat incongruently situated opposite what at the time was a very much operative Fremantle Prison.

On more that one occasion musical items were performed both by, and for, the guests. One such diva of the vocal variety decided to grace her audience with a standard made popular by Hollywood actress and performer Beatrice Lillie called “There are Fairies At The Bottom Of My Garden” It had been penned by Liza Lehmann during the 1920’s and was probably inspired by the fairy craze triggered by the pretty-damn-obvious-in-hindsight fake fairy photographs of Cottingley that completely sucked in Sherlock Holmes author Arthur Conan Doyle.

The Grigg family garden setting was lushly verdant. However, there was another structure present in most backyards, usually located as far away from the main house as physically possible. What the singer had not taken into account was that not only had Fremantle Councillor Bert Grigg and his wife Carrie this particular utility at the back of their garden, they were also in possession of two small boys who found a song about what was at the bottom of their garden very funny indeed.

My grandmother, who later married one of those two young boys, had a strange verbal tic she used her entire life. I could never comprehend it. I presumed it was a euphemism employed by that generation for modesty’s sake. My grandfather died months after I was born so I never got to know him. It was only many years after my grandmother was gone that I finally discovered the truth. In the back yard of Hampton Street still stands an outhouse. By outhouse I mean the bog, the crapper, dunny, water closet or shithouse.

Whenever my grandmother had need to announce she was going to the toilet, she would say: “I’m going to the fairies”