OLD though I am, I am not old enough to have been around in the days when movies should more properly have been called jerkies on account of the projectionist winding the film through the camera with a spanner. Despite this, one film from that era has stuck in my mind, It had an actor called WC Fields, who played an ordinary bloke who came into millions. He’d spent most of his adult life as the bandicoot of the highways, being flattened by vehicles bigger than his, and generally run off the road by idiots and thugs on four wheels. So when he comes into a fortune overnight he gaily…

THIS is the last time I am buying a diary. I have just flicked through the past month of my new $30 diary and confirmed my worst fear. It contains – nothing. One month. Gone! Not only have I wasted $2.50 of my $30, I have depressed myself with the thought that I am, a: still disorganised; b: doing nothing very interesting; and c: not being invited anywhere. I don’t even have an appointment with the dentist. I haven’t even filled in the bit at the front where it asks for your car key number (I didn’t know it had one) and your blood group. I passed a few desultory…

WE have had a row. I wouldn’t mention it except that this isn’t an ordinary Domestic. This is the sort of row that terminates with the police digging up the yard. That’s why I’m telling you – so they’ll know where to find me. I’m also telling you because I’m sure there are lessons to be learned here, even if I’m not sure what they are. This row has gone on for several days. It began like a volcano (red hot lava and loud, poisonous eruptions), continued like a volcano (cold ash blanketing everything in a suffocating silence), and may, like a volcano, result in the end of civilisation as…

I NEVER noticed before how many ugly babies there are. Stand still for five minutes in any shopping centre and they’ll trundle past you with those revolting dummies stuffed in their flubbery mouths and soppy head bands strangling their questionable brains. Too fat, too big, too blonde, too dark; piggy eyes and funny ears. I don’t wish them ill, you understand. I mean, I’m sure some of them will grow into respectable and respected members of the community. If they work hard at it. They may never achieve international greatness, nor even national greatness, but someone will love them. I suppose. It’s so unfair, though, don’t you think? We are…

WELL, he’s not called The Saint for nothing, is he? In the Lesley Charteris books that gave him his name international villains were always inventing new and interesting ways of trying to rub him out, but he managed to survive it all. So why should we be surprised that Townsville’s Saint, on Castle Hill, has escaped an assassination attempt by the Townsville City Council – especially one led by that diabolical hitman Jack Wilson, bless his cotton socks? The Queensland Heritage Council has given the city council permission to send The Saint — our Saint — to his doom. But you could tell Jack’s heart was never in this particular…