YOU galah! The saying is as Aussie as meat pies, kangaroos and Holden cars and means you're bit of a dill.
But the narrator of Tracy Sorensen's The Lucky Galah, a galah called Lucky, is no birdbrain, but a sharp observer of fate, Australia and what it means to be human.
It's 1969 and a remote WA town is set to play a pivotal part in the moon landing. Nearby is a great dish: a relay for messages between Apollo 11 and Houston.
Radar technician Evan Johnson and his colleagues stare at the moving images on the console, although his young wife Linda seems distracted.
Meanwhile, the people of Port Badminton have gathered to watch Armstrong's small step on a single TV in the old theatre. The Kellys, a crop of redheads, sit in rare silence. Roo shooters at the back of the hall squint through their rifle sights to see the tiny screen.
Lucky is in his cage on the Kellys' back verandah. "I sit here, unheard, underestimated, biscuit crumbs on my beak. But fate is a curious thing..."
- The Lucky Galah, by Tracy Sorensen, (Picador).
