Henry Lawson Is Stalking Me From Beyond The Grave #3

Actually, he's not. Henry Lawson isn't stalking me any more. He's stalking my mate Milly instead. He's such a slut.

Whilst planning a trip to Mudgee to see some old-fart champions of Australian rawk play at A Day On The Green, Milly thought she'd have a squiz at some background information about the winery the show was being staged at. Poet's Corner. Named after Henry Lawson. On Henry Lawson Drive.

A couple of weeks ago, in her capacity as Person Who Gets Sent The Occasional Press Release, Milly received an intriguing bit of parchment from C.L.A.S.S. (The Coalition of Law Abiding Sporting Shooters – logo includes pair of crossed rifles superimposed over the Southern Cross), announcing that November 18th will now be National "Buy A Gun" Day. I know. I know. The first sentence of the document reads: "In the words of that great Australian poet Henry Lawson, 'Every man should own a rifle and have cartridges in store'". I dunno – maybe he was just trying to rhyme with "Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door" or something.

The basic point is that I don't think Henry likes me anymore. It's the same old story, really – girl meets dead bush poet, girl introduces dead bush poet to friend, dead bush poet clocks friend's winner rack and drops girl like hot stone. I've been rejected before (not often, mind you – I've got a really nice bottom), but never by a spectral scribe. That's worse than by text message. I know he's like, famous and all, but you can probably understand why I'm a little bit insulted that I've been dumped by a guy who's been rotting in the ground for the best part of a century.

Milly, I hope you and Henry will be very happy. I really mean that. You're a top chick, and as far as decomposing odists go, Henno's a real catch.