I drove past your house this morning and there was smoke coming from the yard. I parked the car and went through the side gate to have a look. Where the fuck are you? There were people everywhere, in various stages of undress. Three women ran past in their underwear, chasing a satin bower bird whose tail feathers some clown had painted orange. Down on the jetty I found someone called Richard Shephard, miming fighting a marlin from a game chair in a huge swell. Fuck he was good. But inside the house there was carnage. This big bloke, naked under a white coat, was jabbing all and sundry with a huge needle, shouting "Stone fish venom! Blood for the petrol Gods!" The effects of his random, wild injections were chilling, Bob. As soon as they were stabbed, the victims let out a bloodcurdling cry of NAAARRAAAAAAAA and then laughed hysterically before lying down on their stomachs and pretending to swim. What a you running over there at the Point? Some kind of crisis centre for fishing addicts? I make a living collecting glasses at the Rest, not intervening in your bizarre private life!! Get a grip! By the way, that Doctor bloke has booked a room at the Angler's Rest under the name Greenaway. Mean anything to you? I don't want to be involved, but if you'd like me to say something to him, I will. I've got some planks out back that just might come in handy.