We christened them Bud and Lou - not because of any great comedic talent, but because of the general air of clumsiness and ineptitude that emanated from everything they did; not a quality to inspire great confidence. After all, Anne and I were entrusting these two to pack and load our entire household possessions into a huge truck and haul them from one end of the state to the other - over a thousand kilometres from hot, dry Longreach in inland Queensland to hot and humid Cairns on the North Tropical Coast.

They were late that first morning, of course. Bud muttered something about having been given the wrong address by his despatcher, not too concerned that our already tight schedule had just been stretched beyond breaking point.

They bumbled their way through our little flat, casting what might have been an expert eye over our belongings, asking a few pointless questions about what was to go in their truck and what we would be taking with us, even though we had been up since the crack of dawn carefully labelling everything with that very information.

Then they simply vanished. "Smoko," Bud remarked as he clambered up into the behemoth that threatened to take out a whole row of mail-boxes as Lou urged it out of our narrow driveway.

An hour later they re-appeared, Lou still wiping what appeared to be pie-crust and tomato sauce from his beard and Bud swigging from an enormous bottle of Fanta. "Want some, mate?" he offered, wiping the top of the bottle with his grimy hand, and appearing confused by my declining his invitation.

Another hour flew speedily past as they discussed which room would be best to pack first, then cheerfully bringing in packing material and cartons from the truck and laying them out in seemingly random order around the lounge. They talked as they worked, a habit that allowed us to get to know them quite well over the next day and a half.

Lou, the older and burlier of the two, was married with a young family in Bundaberg. He took a fancy to our Old English Sheepdog, Buffy, and told us how his mother had kept them for years and how devoted they were to their 'flock'.

His skinny mate was less talkative, but revealed he'd been brought up on a cattle station in the Northern Territory. As he grew to know us more he opened up about his croc-hunting exploits and tales of the extreme weather and isolation of 'The Territory'.

Packing finally got under way and we watched open-eyed as they treated our precious possessions with complete disregard for their financial or sentimental worth. Actually, that's not quite true; items of little concern to us seemed to require the most fastidious of wrapping and labelling, while more valuable pieces were carelessly stuffed into any old carton with a shrug and a wink. By the time they'd finished packing the lounge, they'd lost the screws that would be needed to re-assemble the TV cabinet and broken the glass top of a small side table.

"No worries, mate," Lou reassured me, "Insurance will cover that. We'll get it fixed for you before we deliver up in Cairns."

Anne drew me aside. "There's no way we're letting this pair loose on the good stuff in the kitchen," she hissed. "Do something!"

Hesitantly I approached the intrepid pair who were busy searching (again!) for the inventory which had somehow lodged itself under the mountain of cartons now accumulating in one corner of the room.

"Er, guys," I mumbled, "is it alright if we pack some cartons ourselves? I mean, that'd help you out, right?"

"Oh, that'd be yer PBO's," chirped Bud.

"PBO's?"

"Yeah, you write PBO on the boxes - Packed By Owner - that's what it stands for. It means yer can't claim insurance on any breakages, cos they're not packed by professionals, yer see."

Armed with this stupendous information, I went to inform my wife of the welcome news. Within minutes she was skilfully wrapping glasses, china and kitchen ornaments and passing them to me to place safely in a carton, the first of an eventual great number of PBO's as we discovered more and more of our belongings that we didn't consider to be sturdy enough to consign to Lou and Bud's tender mercies.

Despite this doubling of the work force, the job dragged on into a second day, necessitating re-booking our accommodation and re-arranging appointments at our destination. Lou pulled photos from his breast pocket - his wife, his kids, his dog. Bud showed us the scar on his leg where a four-metre croc had narrowly missed hauling him down from a tree where she had kept him bailed up for two days. The PBO cartons piled up as Anne and I worked furiously to get as much safely packed as we could before Lou and Bud could get to them. Lou lost count and had to re-do a whole page of the inventory. Bud somehow managed to avoid serious injury when he stumbled and fell off the ramp, crashing to the ground still grimly clutching an undamaged carton of computer components.

And then, finally, it was done.

"See ya there," yelled Lou as the great truck, now with an equally large trailer in tow, rumbled towards the highway.

'**

They were late in Cairns as we sat waiting for three hours in the bare flat that was to be our new home

Eventually the truck and trailer unit roared to a halt on the sloping street outside. Bud and Lou greeted us like old friends, scouted out the new place and set to work hauling cartons from the truck. Obligingly they looked for and found, after a couple of false starts, the carton containg kitchen equipment so we could boil water.

Over a cup of tea they shared what they knew of Cairns. Bud knew the city quite well. "Worked on a fishing trawler out of Port Douglas," he told us. "until I had an accident - had to give it up."

Miraculously, after refreshments, the unloading hummed along smoothly. Bud and Lou whistled as they lugged cartons and packages into the new premises, swapping cheerfully profane banter as they sidestepped each other through doorways or up and down the ramp. Lunchtime came and went and the two unloaded the last of our belongings from the body of the truck while Anne and I got to work unpacking cartons and debating where the furniture would go.

Lou poked a cheerful, sweat-streaked head around the door. "Just got the pot-plants to go," he announced. "I'm gonna unhitch the trailer and turn the truck around - they'll be easier to get at from the other side."

I followed him outside, eager to see how he was going to perform this maneuver on the narrow residential street. That was how I got to witness Lou make his final mistake.

Standing between truck and trailer he uncoupled them, then disconnected the air-hose that supplied pressure for the braking system. Released from its tether, the trailer unit surged down the slope.

There was no time for anyone to shove Lou aside, no time even to shout a warning - just a split second for the realisation of his grievous error to flood across his face.

At a slight angle, the corner of the trailer slammed into Lou's chest, its massive weight hurled him backwards and pinned him against the back of the truck. The breast pocket with the treasued photographs disintegrated. Ribs shattered and organs ruptured as tons of steel ground together, lifting and holding the tortured body inches off the ground.

Standing beside me, Bud shuddered as if buffeted by some unseen force. Disbelief and shock registered for a moment, then he turned and sprinted for the house shouting, "Call 111!" But he knew, as I knew, as anyone would have known, that it was no use.

Perhaps by writing this down I can start to forget the awful grunting sound Lou's body made as the life kicked violently out of it.