Top of the mornin' to you! It may not be morning as you read this, but judging by the stars it's about 4 am here, and I am writing to you in real-time, so top of the morning to you. This business of waking up at 4 am has got to stop, but until the business of going to be at 8 pm stops, that just isn't going to happen. Normally I just lie here in my swag, thinking about how cold my face is and waiting for a bird to start chirping, but starting this morning I have resolved to start a series of morning letters, to juxtapose with my series of evening letters. It will be interesting to see how their styles differ. Looking back at the letters I wrote last night, I am immediately struck by their rambling and incoherent nature, and the scrappiness of the hand-writing...
...[if Kalgoorlie was attacked by terrorists] I would join the army without a moments hesitation.
I would make a poor soldier: ill-disciplined, messy, fond of drink (on no, a bird just chirped - time is running low), a preference for chaos over order, an abhorrence of killing people I don't know (and, for your peace of mind, people I do know), look bad in khaki, don't make my bed, long-haired, unshaven, meek, yellow, timid, soft, cowardly, and, to top it all off, a deserter.
In many ways, and on many days, I regret deserting Kalgoorlie. I have seen new and interesting places, but at the moment they have the cold and short-lived embrace of a random floozy from the Palace Hotel corner bar; I long for the warm and reassuring breast of my first true love. I read in Dolly magazine that to get over a relationship, one needs to allow half of the duration of that union, in which case I have around three years of desperate pining to go. Unless I come back.
Ciao for now, from the banks of the Dunham River, East Kimberley.
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Michael, thanks for the email about your updates to this blog. You may have heard that we printed your letter to the "honourable and noble editors" addressed from somewhere in the bush.
The timing was good for our morale. It came after we had been bagged for something unjustified, as we often are.
Ngaire has had her baby Jasmine Allison. I call the baby JAM but Ngaire and her husband Joe haven't allowed that to take off.
We look forward to the next letter written in a thumbnail dipped in tar.
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