Sinister: She was one in a million. So there's five more just in New South Wales...

[Gardiner, Stuart]

Continuing my campaign to make you all love the mighty Whitlams...


Well, who'd have thought it. My Valentine's Day has so far lived up to all
my expectations. As in, the only thing that came through the letterbox this
morning was my credit card bill. So I continue my unblemished record - 24
years without a single VD card, and counting...


Archel said:
>it's tiring being a sinister heart-throb. not that i'd know - men seldom
make passes at
girls who wear glasses 

And so I hereby nominate Archel as the official Sinister heart-throb for the
day. Sorry Genevieve, I just feel it's time for me to move on, it's not you
it's me, etc.

(Is "it's not you, it's me" the most commonly used lie in the world? Come
on, admit it, we've all said it at some point in our lives, when really what
we mean is "what the hell made me even want to go out with you in the first
place"...)


Meanwhile, Vel and Llew brought a drop of sunshine into all our lives, and
made us all wonder why  two nice girls in their prime were still single, but
then said:
>It was none other than that feathery fatboy of love, cupid! He was donned
in a trenchcoat to 
hide his wings and feathers. Not that that would have seemed odd since he
was holding a vacuum cleaner.

What the f***? Am I missing something here?

On a slightly more understandable note, Mark Casarotter challenged:
>p.s. wonder if Big Stu fancies facing me on the footie pitch in the near
future ;-)

Any time. Bring it on, big boy...

Anyway, my plan was to give you all a lovely romantic poem for today,
courtesy of the great Pablo Neruda (the best thing to come out of Chile
since wine?), but I came across this one instead which I can identify with
far more:
Oh Earth, Wait For Me

Return me, oh sun,
to my wild destiny,
rain of the ancient wood.
Bring me back its aroma, and the swords
that fall from the sky,
the solitary peace of pasture and rock,
the damp at the river-margins,
the smell of the larch tree,
the wind alive like a heart
beating in the crowded restlessness
of the towering araucaria.

Earth, give me back your pure gifts,
the towers of silence which rose
from the solemnity of their roots.
I want to go back to being what I have not been,
and so learn to go back from such deeps
that amongst all natural things
I could live or not live, it does not matter
to be one stone more, that dark stone,
the pure stone which the river bears away.

Big Stu
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