After my dinner on Monday evening the telephone rang and the senior deputy editor of The Age asked me if I had made a submission to the worldwide competition for the longest run-on sentence.
There is a moment of confusion that is almost religious as you try to make up your mind where to insert a full stop, but in reality, your paragraphs are in free-fall at this point in time and your prolixity just takes over and your stomach rises up somewhere around your ears as you descend suddenly into the special netherworld which is the long long long sentence which you cry out to God who is in the back paddock, or the Powers that be for this sentence to end like it must have ended for the Von Trapp family at some stage but then again maybe not.
I emailed the Elbonians and asked them to remove the hoax paragraph and the spoof words as I would ring a neighbour in the bush and ask them to pick all the oranges on the dear old Orange Tree and turn them into marmalade and then go out to the chook shed and look under the third chicken on the right, not the Rhode Island Red but the speckly white one, to see if there was an egg sitting there for me in all its pure and holy egginess, and whip me up a batch of fairy cakes; it was a simple and practical request and then, after a few scones of forgiveness with the jam of friendship and the cream of verisimilitude on them I jumped into the dear saggy grey ticking bed and then, having missed it, jumped in a second time rubbing the bruises on my nether regions which were nowhere as bad as the bruises on my psyche from being spoofed on the internets, and swallowing the medication of forgiveness with yet more water.
After so much water, I had to go out to the outhouse. God was there in the paddock, as always, but this time a bunch of helicopters landed with a bunch of journalists in them, all too much for a National Treasure to have to endure.
Disclaimer: The Cast Iron Balcony does not wish to imply that it’s acceptable to use someone else’s cartoon in a competition without their consent.