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It's a long time since I saw Dandy Lion. We were friends. Once. But we were young then, carefree and in love. As much as teenagers ever are.

She was Danielle Lion, but a nickname like Dandy was too delicious for lively friends to miss. Her ancestors were French; there was the aristocratic Daniel de Lyonne (L-Y-O-N-N-E) in medieval times. She was proud of that.

You could feel and smell the Frenchness about her, the way she carried her tall slim-waisted body, the tilt of the head, and there was an arrogant jaunty air as she flicked long dark tresses over well-shaped shoulders and those gorgeous brown eyes dared you to come nearer.

I think we were in love. Well, I was.

She always had answers, and questions, lots of questions. The teachers loved her. They asked her first: "What do you think Danielle?" They never called her Dandy. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say Shakespeare was telling a story of family differences when he wrote Romeo and Juliet? I mean it's not just a love story is it?" The words rolled softly like peaches, as fruit to be savoured.

But for an intelligent girl she had, it seemed to me, some quirky beliefs. There was a fairyland there, an ethereal unreal world, straight out of Tolkien: a belief in witches and fairies. "My room's full of elves and pixies and broomsticks," she said. "I've had them since I was small. There's a real spirit world out there you know. I've got wings too." And I imagined how beautiful she would look, fluttering above my head in a pink fairy dress, waving a wand and casting her enchanted spell over me.

Perhaps she did.

She'd seen some sixty summers and now sat waiting - for the doctor. Across the room, a good-looking confident young man, hardly 20 she guessed. He was flicking through a motor magazine.
"You're into fast cars?" She chanced he'd respond.
"Oh yeh," he said, looking up. "The faster the better. You can get there quicker if it's fast. My Ford's really good. Lonnie in about an hour and 45. It'll overtake just about anything and there's plenty of good straights on the Midland Highway. I usually take my girlfriend. We love the speed."
"And you're not worried about driving too fast? Getting caught? Accidents, you know?"
"Oh no. Not if you're careful. I know what I can do. I can always cut in and find a space. It's the real slow drivers who're the biggest problems on the road. You know, the ones who insist in pootling along at 20K in an 80 zone and you can't overtake. I usually give 'em a toot when I get past."
"You been driving long?" she said.
"Nearly two years. How about you?"
She took a breath and said: "Well I passed my test in 1962. In those days you only had to drive down the main street, it was in the country, and if you could turn round at the end and signal before you did the local policeman passed you. But, of course, I did a lot more driving after that before I thought I was good enough. My father taught me a lot. He said it was important to show respect to other drivers and always obey the law and to expect that other people would sometimes make mistakes and so would I but to try not to make too many. Did they teach you some of those things?"
"I guess. You ever had an accident?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Perhaps I've been lucky or just careful. How about you?"
"Well, this is my second car. I pranged the first one. Maybe I need to be more careful."
The receptionist called her name. She stood up. "Take two hours to Launceston," she said.

Tell me about
the trees I've grown to love;
their leaves, their trunks, and canopies above;
the oaks and ashes, lime and yew;
those English giants once I knew
from childhood days, such memories;
the beauty of those splendid trees.
Tell me about
the wood I used when I was able
to build a lounge room coffee table;
the huon pine and blackwood smells
from forests where all timber dwells.
Tell me about
the childhood friends I knew when small.
What happened, I wonder, to them all?
It sure is hard to tell
if they remember me as well.
But lots of memories linger on -
party days and seaside trips - now gone.
Tell me about
those smells I've always known
(I love them still though now full grown):
strong coffee freshly ground;
onions, fried and browned;
new dug garden ground;
smoky fires; fresh tarmacked roads;
new-mown hay in piled up loads;
squeaky carts and apple smells;
Sunday morning's chiming bells;
in baker's windows fresh baked bread;
springy coils beneath my bed.
Tell me about
the market stalls along the street
where barrow boys would smartly greet
all shoppers with a lively patter
while people gathered just to natter:
"lotsa luvly spuds, buy a pound,
roll up, just outta the ground,
only the best, all ripe
no rubbish, no tripe,
come an' get 'em
'fore I sell 'em!"
Tell me about
those days gone by.

If anyone ever asks me about my favourite movie I'll say Ben Hur - for the chariot race. There's never been anything to match it.

Ben Hur was made in 1959 but the planning was underway years before that. At the time it was the biggest cinematic undertaking ever. Ben Hur is the story of two men, Judah Ben Hur, a Jewish prince and Messala, a Roman soldier, friends as boys who become enemies as men, realising that they had nothing in common any more. The story is set in the troubled period when Christ was living in Judea; it's a story of passion, of love, of desire, of cruelty and hatred as well as great courage. The film starred Charlton Heston and Stephen Boyd in the lead roles supported by more than 60 others, as well as 15 thousand extras. It was filmed in Italy.

But back to the chariot race. This was the climax to an amazing story in which the two heroes are pitted against each other in a do or die final struggle to decide which of them would be declared the victor. The movie modelled the race on the ancient circus in Jerusalem. This required the construction of the largest set ever built for a movie. It kept over a thousand men occupied for a year carving an oval from a rock face which was some 18 acres in area. It required a million feet of timber, 250 miles of steel tubing and 40,000 tons of white sand from Mediterranean beaches.

The chariot race took three months to film. It required nine chariots each pulled by four horses. So for many months 78 beautiful animals were in training and this required a full-time old-fashioned blacksmith. The action was not only dramatic but highly dangerous and throughout this entire period a team of two doctors and two nurses manned an infirmary near the track. None of the drivers sustained serious injury but the staff was kept busy treating extras in the stands who were suffering from heat exhaustion.

And the race itself? Roman chariot races continued on for a great many circuits. The race was, of course, fast and furious with no quarter given and there were no rules. Anything could and did happen. Long knives on the axles were good for scything out another's spokes and early in the race Messala lashes his whip across Ben Hur's face. There were crashes and broken chariots littered the course. At one point in the race Ben Hur finds he is racing towards two upended chariots and seems to have no way to avoid them. Chariton Heston was without doubt an outstanding charioteer and with great skill his chariot jumps the wreckage and he almost appears to fly many feet above the ground. In the end, of course, it is Ben Hur who wins after Messala is involved in a collision in which he is thrown from his chariot but dragged behind it around the stadium. They carry him to the infirmary where he lays dying as Ben Hur comes to see how he is. Messala utters the last of his hate at his now victorious rival.

The race sequence lasts a continuous eight minutes in the cinema and has probably never been equalled by any other movie. Ben Hur won eleven Academy Awards including Best Picture in both America and Britain. For me, it was not a race but The Race.

It was Sir Marmaduke A. Chumleigh who got the riding craze;
His middle name was Algernon; he had some funny ways;
He hated anyone to contradict - he had no time for fools,
Was arrogant, eccentric, and thought he knew the rules
Of every game and sport that had ever been invented.
He knew them all he said; his pride was never dented.
He'd quote the laws of soccer and always watched World Cup;
How many teams played rugby and when full-time was up;
He knew the runs and wickets in lots of cricket matches
And even who had taken the finest one-day catches.
He was passionate for tennis and golf he knew about,
Was familiar with all fisticuffs and who had been knocked out.
You could ask about Olympics and who had nearly won
And whether Marathons were much too far to run.
He knew about the training runs for all of sports' elite
And whether any champion had ever faced defeat.

Now Chumleigh knew a lot - but did he play himself, you ask?
For fun, one day, he gave himself a little sporting task:
To challenge whether, just by chance, he might make the national team
Of riders galloping on horses over gate and stream.
He was a country gent so riding horseback was, of course,
An easy thing for him to do - he'd never fallen off a horse!

He wandered to his garage, where hanging on the door
He kept his riding breeches and new boots upon the floor;
He'd a brand new deep blue/purple jacket used for skiing
Which always made him feel a superhuman being.

So togged up in his finery he mounted on his steed,
Dug in his heels, grabbed at the reins and got the nag to speed.
But as the horse got to the track it bolted clean away
And Chumleigh, fearing for his life, was ready then to pray.
The horse strode wildly over logs and splashed in every creek,
The rider falling from its back and feeling very weak.
A mile or so along the way he really lost his hold;
Chumleigh fell and hit the ground and rolled and rolled and rolled.

He lay in painful agony spread out upon the ground;
The horse ran on for many miles but slackened not his bound
While Chumleigh lay a-writhing and wondered if his head
Was really still attached to him or whether he was dead.
A plaintive wail, a sob or two, and curses three or four
Were heard to echo through the bush for he was mighty sore.
He noticed too that many stars were shining in his eye
- At least a hundred thousand, and questions such as: "Why?"
He pulled himself upon his feet and started in a daze
To drag his body through the woods but it was all a maze.
The horse, of course, had cantered back - he never missed Chumleigh;
He hated being ridden and it was nearly time for tea.

When Chumleigh got to thinking about his awful ride
He wondered if his horse had really ever tried
To live up to his name, unusual though it was,
For years ago he'd named him 'Push Me-Pull You' because
He'd read it in a book you see and it sounded rather fun.
But a horse with such a funny name will not know how to run,
To gallop, trot or canter or even how to walk.
The horse will say, quite naturally: "What a lot of silly talk."
So Chumleigh's back to storing facts about his favourite sports
And being extra careful about riding of all sorts.
He'd rather keep his body in a truly healthy state
Than people shout and tell him that his riding isn't great!

A piece of writing to include all the words (underlined) selected by each member of the group. I added the further challenge to write mine in Banjo Patterson style - rhyming couplets.

"I'm going to commit a murder! It's not that difficult. Lots of people do it. You can read what they did in the papers every day. Most of them get caught, of course, because they aren't smart enough."
He paused, considering her short skirt; it rode up above the knees as she perched on the bar stool; and her rayon-spun neck line dipped to an impressive vee. He raised his eyes a fraction to her face, and surveyed the deep blue eyes and her long raven black hair falling lusciously to below the shoulders.
She'd caught his attention as soon as he entered the room twenty minutes earlier. She seemed willing to entertain his banter, not yet weary of him and he had no intention of curtailing what was becoming a more and more interesting evening.
"So are you enjoying the conference? Do you think you'll get something from it?" he asked.
She looked at him, a deep penetrating look, as if there might be something deeper in the question. "Perhaps," she said.
"I always know what I want," he replied. "But you know how you come half way around the world and learn nothing you didn't know before." He finished drinking, returned the glass to the coaster, and dabbed away a tiny spot of liquid which had dropped onto his immaculate dark blue suit. She noticed the sparkle from the cuff links as his sleeve moved a few inches. "You see, international security means that people will have to die. If they get in the way they have to be removed. That's why we're here, isn't it? Your country and mine can work together to make the world a safer place but only if we cooperate. It is of course a fine philosophical point whether assassination is murder. You would have an opinion about that I imagine?"
She crossed her legs from right to left, considering the question. you have someone in mind?" she said.
"There are always people we have to remove," he said. "There are bodies in this room now we should consider. On my right and behind to your left: you'll catch his reflection in the mirror above the bar. Oleg Kerpinski, which is only one of his aliases. He's here to discover what the West is thinking but he has to go. I have instructions, quite detailed plans actually but I need assistance. By tomorrow night when we leave here he will have ceased to exist. No one will know where he's gone."
The girl eyed him impassively. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
"It's too public here. People hear things. I'll go over the whole thing with you but I need your assistance. Meet you in thirty minutes. My room is on the second floor. 227."
A tiny glimmer of excitement flickered across her face. "And whom do I ask for? What is your name?"
"Bond. James Bond."

clandestine lunch at a corner table, splade in the right hand, hers in the left;
snatch of swingy jazz, smoochy saxophone wail;
circular tesselated Roman pavement;
lazy latte moments at the sidewalk cafe;
curling tobacco smoke;
'chef out the back' - white chalk, black board;
mobile-absorbed teen: "Yeh, OK ... meet you there ... oh ... about” trails away;
dingy back alley, colourful graffiti on smoky brickwork;
scurrying kids, no mum, in and out the doorways;
plenty-of-time tourists;
mooching daydreamy lovers;
fragrantly-scented long hair, wafting Exotic Nights surrounds and is gone;
cheery smile, black apron, silver nose ring : slapping, cutting slabs of gooey gum, rolling into sticky jollies;
window challenges: dolls, fairies, witches, games of intellect and imagination;
coloured, multi-patterned expensive dresses;
high heels, flat heels, leather sandals, no shoes;
mini skirts, flappy trousers-, blacks, whites, browns, red, purple;
"You come eat a' my shop. I give you free bottle of wine. It's very good dinner. You not buy better."
heavenly chocolate shops, cake shops, bakeries - ahh!
A feast for the senses
MELBOURNE

Our World is a Wonderful Place.
I'm watching, we're watching, them: southern right whales, four of them, out there splashing, gallumphing, walloping the water. A mighty spectacle, not seen before, not by us. It's dramatic, exciting, a rare moment as these huge creatures journey up the coast seeking new waters where they will spend the summer, breeding.
We've been called to find them by a brief mention on the radio. Excitedly we follow the vague information not knowing exactly where we should be heading. Eventually we track them down, minute splashes out in the bay, perhaps two kilometres away. But we can get nearer. Out along the track to the surf beach; lots of wetsuited surfies roiling in on breaking wave tops, black bodies splashing in foaming water.
And beyond them, not far away now, the black and white-suited right whales roll and frolic in their own surf show. They're close together, hard to count; maybe three, perhaps four; huge bodies, like submarines, up to 17 metres in length; giant tail fins hover above the water, disappear, surface again, spurt funnels of spray, plunge and roll revealing distinctive irregular white patches and enormous wide mouths encrusted with barnacles.
They are in no hurry to move away. "They've been there all morning," says a surfer.
Through binocular eyes we observe every movement. We're captivated - for an hour or so. We're enjoying this magic moment, this freedom to do what we enjoy, what we need to do; this life, this flowing beauty; these rare moments as we travel on, enjoying the freedom of ocean's roiling currents; the movement of companion spirits around us; waves of watery delights, nearby rocky shores, sandy beaches; our fellow travellers in this life; the people on the dunes over there watching us through their binoculars. Perhaps they think we can't see them because they're so small. We see everything every time our eyes rise above the surface. "I'm watching, we're watching, them. This world, our world, is a wonderful place."

The Pieman is a river really grand
which twists and quickly flows
where enormous forest giants stand:
I wonder where it goes.

On tree-clad banks, just standing there,
I am amazed to find
an earthly paradise and treasures rare:
Blackwood and Huon Pine.

The huons here are ages old, and tall,
yet hang their branches down
to trail in swirls, their leafy fingers small
in water deep, yet never drown.

These forest giants enhance my love-affair:
I stretch my arms around them;
I feel their gnarled timber with fingers bare;
I love this priceless gem.

From a pile of weathered wood, rough sawn,
I choose some huon pine;
a magic fragrance, honey-sweet, is born
when cut from grain so fine.

From the benchtop, shavings curl in yellow strips
down to the floor below
and I'm tempted to taste with my lips
- the nectar of the woods, you know.

My table's fashioned with swirling grain
.and spotted bird's eye flecks:
on forest floor for centuries has fain
this sensuous golden phoenix.

From forested river side my table came
into my lounge today:
a transformed miracle aflame
- to satisfy my play.

No one told her it's unladylike to run after him, so she continues to do it.

You know the kind of thing, trying to entice him to dance, or play.

At first he played it cool, and ignored her, then later on, if her saw coming towards him, he'd retreat the other way.

Finally one day it became a little too much for him, and in defence he wacked her on the head.

She was heartbroken and started to cry.

He immediately took his dummy out of his mouth and passed it to her.

Clarence City Council
We'd like to thank Clarence City Council for their support via a Community Support Grant.