Henry Lawson Is Stalking Me From Beyond The Grave

It's true.
One of Australia's best known Bush Poets is following me around, and I'm not sure what to do about it.

You may remember from a previous post (Road Trip To Quandialla #2) that my mate Milly and I went on a country road trip earlier this year, stopping for a lemonade at the quaint country town of Grenfell. Whilst wandering the streets of the town, we noticed a bit of bust-and-plaque action informing us that Grenfell was the birthplace of Henry Lawson. We even considered popping back to Grenfell later in the year for the annual Lawson festival. Henno at Grenno, if you like.

Last month I moved house, and now I live in Naremburn. As is my custom when I move house, I went for a meandering walk around my new suburb, to see the sights, smell the smells and map the quickest downhill route from the local. I took a turn onto a lovely path that wound through trees behind the Willoughby Leisure Centre, and happened upon a clearing which hosted a cave, a mini-amphitheatre and an informative plaque. The plaque announced that I was standing in front of Henry Lawson's Favourite Cave, and I discovered that Willoughby Council hold poetry readings there on Henry’s birthday:(http://www.willoughby.nsw.gov.au/EventsOnlineDetails.aspx?PageID=266&ItemID=31). I’m very fond of the council’s advice – that attendees should ‘bring a mug’. I jog past Henry’s cave three mornings a week.

Last night I caught up again with Milly, who is now subbing for a popular Sunday magazine, starting with a few schooners at The Madison in Surry Hills. Milly was telling me about a story idea she worked on about blokes and their mates, and had a copy of the mag with her. I regaled her with tales of Henry, and how he seems to pop up with alarming regularity. When Milly got up to go to the bar, I amused myself by flipping through the magazine she’d brought, looking for the mateship story. There, at the top of the page, the first line of the story read “Bush bard Henry Lawson once wrote, ‘The man who hasn’t a male mate is a lonely man indeed…”.
I think beer came out of my nose. Henry, you spooky bastard.

Milly reckons I should start my own Dead Poets Society. I’ll let you know as soon as he pops up again.

Emails I May Never Send #8

Dear television producers,

I, and most of the people I share the planet with, do not give a rat's arse about ice skating. Unless you can promise me that Karl Stefanovic cracks his skull on the rink, I'm not watching.
Just put the Goodies back on and be done with it.

Yours almost indifferently,
Jo.