Bluey

He was a freckled red-haired boy called Bluey.

Bluey, who of course was a redhead, started out surfing on his mom's ironing board when he was a grommet of six years of age.

A smile spread slowly across Bluey′s red-whiskered face as the boy went to find his hoe, the one Dad had given him to start a garden in the bush.

Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags, /And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags […]

‘Doc’ […] shouldered his bluey and whistled up his lame fox-terrier before formally wishing them all well.

He confessed: "You'd have to do a 'bluey' with her. It's one of those situations you think, 'I'm not risking it'. With really good-looking girls, the pressure's on."