I know about you and your book Immigrant Chronicles. Last winter I met a man out on the ice, he said his name didn't matter because his nickname was The Red Pest. He was a miserable fellow and asked endless miserable questions. He said he was from Woy Woy in NSW, and that all he knew about ice fishing he'd learned from a book of poetry: Ice Fishing by Andrew Taylor. He was after a halibut, and I told him their absence was because of an infestation of Waggas in Lake Marie. Then he said he knew a poet personally, and this poet is you, Skrzynecki.
I want to take this chance to ask if we can meet up? Next week I will be flying into Sydney. I know I would be welcome at Peter Minter and Kate Fagan's house, but I fear their ceiling would be too low for me. When Olson arrived last week he stayed there and knocked himself out when he went for a piss. Skrzynecki, can you meet me at the airport and we will book into a city hotel with a high ceiling?
Don't be fooled by those demons at Waggafish, they are not handy with a gun and a knife, and they certainly don't mean well! Trust no one.