Do I remember a late Friday night, early Saturday morning, circa 1981, when a young man and myself fenced our way up the hill at Rosalie, fallen palm fronds for our epees, silliness our favourite feeling as we danced through the night? Why, yes, I do, and I sometimes wonder where that young man ended up, apart from decades older. Well, actually, I know, and I also know that we’ll always have that Friday-Saturday in Rosalie, and I certainly hope the palm fronds recovered well. Touche, Michael.
It could be the chocolate fondue fountain, it could be the incessant grating of carrots, it could be the groans from Apocalypse Soon, or it could be that Dr On Mars has been watching far too many ancient Greco-Roman-Kebab-a-rama-BBQ-tuna-esque tall tales beamed in by satellite from the back of a semi-trailer three-point-five kilometres south of Broken Hill. Just sayin’. Soooo, anyway, enjoy your Easter Sunday, friends, and all the hot cross bunnies you can eat, or kiss better – they’re crabby little buggers, aren’t they?