“And when the wombat comes …

… he will find me gone” – Stewart Copeland

This morning a large box turned up. I feared the worst when I set eyes on the label. Are those the shifty judgemental eyes of a Wombat I perceive lurking in there? Was his journey disagreeable. Are they aggressive bastards? It might be dead. Good. Best.

It turned out to be a barbeque, not mammal but metal. A metal Wombat in the hand is worth two in the bush or … Something. As I don't have a hob or cooker I shall now only eat Barbeque food. I expect I shall have to move up a dress size.



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