From the letters page of today’s Sydney Morning Herald …
“… If you choose to live on a floodplain, or next to the sea, or in a desert in a global warming world then you should be prepared to accept the consequences or move to an area of lower risk. You should not expect your fellow Australians to bail you out every time a catastrophe occurs in what is now a high-risk environment. Such an attitude will wear the Aussie spirit thin” - Greg Watts, Narooma
There is a land, a land at the end of the rainbow, a magical land where the sun shines “just so”, a magical land where the rain falls “just so”, a land where all the rivers run just right, and the oceans never swell, a place of magical calm and order and peace and beauty where the winds never whip themselves into anything stronger than a sweet, cooling breeze, where the only fires that ever rage are the ones upon which we pop our “shrimps” at a weekend barbecue with beloved family and friends, and pixies gambol in the sweet green fields picking chocolate daisies as they la-la-la along on their way to make sweet, glorious love under the marshmallow mushroom cups beneath a fairy-floss sky.
And then there’s Narooma, where gobsmackingly stupid little ignorant bastards like Greg Watts live, the type of people who would think nothing, nothing at all, of leaning over a terminal cancer patient in a hospice and whispering in thin, weedy voices through thin, bloodless lips while their eyes narrow to mean little black slits and say, “Ya must’ve done sumfin’ to deserve it, so it serves ya fuckin’ right”.
Where the great Aussie spirit of which he speaks runs about as deep as a puddle of camel piss in the Saraha.
Let’s all move there, then, shall we?
