It's been a fun time here. Frank's taken up two new hobbies. Golf, I accepted gracefully, gratefully even. I remember the times I tried to get him interested? "Nah," he'd scoff, "Where's the sense in it", then turn back to the television and watch cricket.

Magically, Ken dragged him out to the course. Now Frank's a devotee and I have the afternoons to myself while Frank gets exercise and companionship.

I guess you have visions of him becoming a lean, mean fighting machine? Sorry, not yet.

You see, to defray golf expenses my genius decided to cut down on his bar tab. He bought a home brew kit.

"It's a piece o' cake," he bragged. "The instructions couldn't be simpler."

A few men do it. They swap tips and samples. Frank's sure he'll produce a blue ribbon brew. "They use plastic bottles," he shudders and collects bottles for his project.

Equipment finally assembled, the process begins. Large tubs of water boil on the stove, stinky, sticky muck blended and reverently poured into the fermenter and the cooled water added.

For a week it bubbles by the back door. Frank watches it like a mother cat watches her kittens. "It's bubbling too fast," he grumbles - or, "It's not bubbling enough." God knows how he became so knowledgable. My latent genius must have been planning this for years.

Bottling day arrives. Maestro works diligently, ignores the hot sun as he caps his brew.

"Look honey," he displays his bottles proudly. "It's only twenty cents a bottle. That offsets the clubs and cart. From now on golfing will be free."

"That's nice dear." I thank my lucky stars that I don't drink beer.

Loud shots reverberate through town. "Culling kangaroos," I think as I turn over in bed. "They're pretty close." I mutter as the bangs continue.

Morning, a strong boozie smell demands attention. "Something's wrong in the shed," I inform Master Brewer. Expletives colour the air.

"Goes well with the smell," I muse, then yell. "Wear shoes. There's lots of broken glass."

A heart-rending wail follows. Disconsolate, Frank returns for coffee and sympathy.

"Only five left. Must have sounded like WW3."

"Did rather. Oh well, put it down to experience. I'll advertise it Saturday."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged," I smile and reach for the phone.