A great dying time is completed. It is time for rebirth and positivism. It is time for footy finals, it is time to make the Australian cricket team, it is time to write, the time is 5.52pm.


I am here wrapped woolen yet brisk, the outside chill of Naracoorte has forced me to quit smoking.


On Friday the dogs that live in my backyard killed a wayward chicken. His adventure now is well and truly through. What I thought was either a cruel prank played by my housemate and her guest, or the pissy squealing nuisance of her cat in some kind of home detention in the bedroom next door, was really the death, of possibly the last free range chicken in Australia.


It had been an early night for me, sound from Nintendo wii’s condescending bowels had nearly pushed me over the edge. What on earth is the point in practicing ten pin bowling with a hundred fucking pins? In the real game you need to hit ten, Ten!!!!


 My steady consumption of coopers pale ale since my arrival has seen me to deliver an ever relaxed prose.


However my news writing has improved, the pyramid is taking shape! Ramses would be proud.


“You must support the top, you must support the top, you damn Victorian heathen,” he would yell, while two foreigners at the local market place pushing Karma Sutra books at half price tell an interested onlooker, “You find two friends, they find two friends, it’s that easy!” “Isn’t it?”


Every person I’ve interviewed so far has commented on how my teeline looks alot like hieroglyphs. I’m inclined to agree, in fact, I do with most.


My plan for the teeline test involves 1) The Rosetta stone and 2) as Julie suggested, a hammer.


The night before the chicken died I approached my housemate and asked her to introduce me to her dogs. She replied, “Whaa you like the darrgs?” “You like the darrgs,” and I said, are they quite vicious?


All week while I washed the dishes I looked out the kitchen window into two sets of cold, psychotic looking eyes staring back at me. Sometimes I would use my sharpening skills of telekinesis; “Nice doggies, that’s good doggies out there” I would tell them while the basket of washing stacked higher and higher.


How in the name of Phillip J Fry am I too peg out my washing?


“One will lick you to death and the other will probably just want to jump all over you,” my housemate said.


It was midday after the killing when I summoned the courage to venture into the backyard. Two men, one with a whippersnipper spoke to the other over the back fence as the dogs approached. I quickly realized it was the housemate’s father, a limestone quarry man.


He told me he had constructed an electric fence around the perimeter of the backyard. “That ought to keep the bloody mongrels” he said as I pegged out a fortnight’s worth of laundry.


The dogs commenced to lick me and one offered a stick in recreation.


I suggested to the quarry man whether a car battery would perturb the beasts rather than only the few every ready batteries he had in use.


He didn’t respond, but I am sure his hopeful their addicted behaviour will one day cease.


So am I.

ps. I am looking forward to receiving the 2009 JSchool Blog Award upon my return to Brisbane.