"Wow, if I'd known I was going to appear on US breakfast television, I'd have gotten trapped in a mine ages ago!"

"

Crikey. It sure has been an interesting couple of weeks. There I am, minding my own business and all of a sudden I'm trapped in an underground mine with a bloke I don't even know. Cut to two weeks later and I'm being called a hero! Gee whiz, I was just trying to hold in my poo!

Now, next thing you know I'm getting phone calls from bloody Diane Sawyer. I wasn't familiar with the name but apparently she's some big Seppo big shot TV lady. And she wants little old me to appear on her program. Oh, and the other bloke.

Now, since being rescued from that mine I've done my fair share of talking to press people, but let me tell you: when I heard I was going to appear on American television, my heart skipped a beat. I've grown up all me life watching repeats of great American sitcoms, so you can understand how excited I am. If i'd known I'd get to be on US breakfast television, I'd have gotten trapped in a mine years ago!

I tell you, it makes it all worthwhile now. All those painful days and nights being in fear of my life and contemplating cutting off our leg...well, I mean, that was tough, but I'd do it all again just to be on uh...what's her name again? Diane? Yeah, her. I'd do it all again to be on her show. Whatever it's called.

"

Oh my God, you guys! I think my drink was spiked!

"

This is a very important message for all you girls out there. Ok, so, for reals, I think my drink was spiked last night. No, I'm being serious. I woke up this morning and I couldn't remember what happened last night. Don't laugh and say this happens all the time because I know for a fact that it doesn't. I am, however, convinced that it's happening more and more. Not just to me but to other vulnerable 80 kilo females as well. My proof is in the pudding. The pudding of spiked drinks, that is.

Last night was scary, I tell you. It's almost like each time I went to the bar and got a drink I felt more and more hazy and as time more time passed, the less I can recall about the night. All this has lead me to the conclusion that there must be some sort of active ingredient in all the drinks they sell at this particular pub. Some sort of chemical concotion that, when mixed with a tasty beverage like a Cruiser or a Lemon Ruski, makes one lose her inhibitions, become louder and turns that crappy cover band into a divine musical inspiration. Actually, they were pretty good, weren't they?

Maybe I was dressing like a target for these evil spikers. Let me see now, what was I wearing out last night? See, I can't even remember that, especially since I didn't wake up with my own clothes on. This has got to stop. A girl can't even go out and have eight to twelve nice drinks with the ladies without waking up in disoriented, head-ached and nauseous anymore. What is the world coming to?

Actually, come to think of it, the same thing happened last time I went out with the girls. And that time I ended up waking up in a bed with, um, what's that guy's name? That guy with the, uh...shirt? Yeah, he scared my kids a little. Especially when he introduced himself as "Daddy Steve" and offered to take them out for breakfast hotcakes.

And, you know what? Now that I think about it, I think my drink was spiked at Laurel and John's wedding too. Why else would I be dancing like a fool and embarassing myself on that video that Colin insists on showing everyone? It's almost like every time I go to a bar and get a refreshing drink from it, every sip I have is affecting my physiology. The only conclusion I can come to is that some evil being is spiking my drinks with an intoxicating agent. I'm not even sure if this being is human.

So, yeah, I think I'd better call the cops, because this is happening way too often.

"

Kennels in the Sky

"

The dog died this week. Our once wide-eyed golden English cocker spaniel signed his own death warrant. His handwriting on the consent form was a little shaky, but considering the pain he was in, it was a champion effort. Yes, I'm sad. But as I shook his hand for the last time, I knew it was for the best. His fingers were slipping for the first time: this wasn't the firm, masculine handshake I had once known. This was limp and without passion. It was time.

I don't want you to feel badly about it. Oh no, that's the last thing Bill would have wanted. In fact, I remember standing by his side on the doctor's slab and having him look at me with his big brown eyes, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and saying "No tears, sonny. No tears". Of course, he didn't know what he was saying. He was delirious from loss of blood and anesthetic. But the sentiment remained as true as ever.

He went with dignity, something that is often denied the canine euthanasia patient. Anyone who ever knew him would have been proud to see his strength and resolve as that green liquid entered his body. He went as casually as if he was just coming home from work, putting his coat and fedora on the hat-stand and plonking himself in front of the TV to watch repeats of the Bob Morrison Show. That's right, he died just as he had lived: like a regular dog. And we should all remember him as such.

"