Down here in the Antipodes, where Spring's prelusion is over, and the herald scent of jasmine yields to the serious business of gemmation and efflorescence, the birds and bees are at it like knives.
The sky is blue and the weather is warm.
The sky is blue and the weather is warm.
It takes dedication to be depressed at this time of year.
But I must admit that Mr Trump is making a pretty good attempt at ruining this seasonal euphoria. And even if we manage to mitigate this provocation, our smirking, happy-clapping Pentecostal, faux-fair-dinkum-Aussie Prime Minister enters stage hard-right, taking time off from End-Times and Talking-in-Tongues to reinforce our despair while he waits for The Rapture.
(Just as an aside, is an individual who believes that the End-Times are imminent the right man to develop a plan for the future of this country?)
But how shall it profit a 73 year old man in a tiny village in the Antipodes to spend his days in rage and bitterness, fulminating against the ignorance and gullibility of mankind and the unadulterated evil of those in positions of power whose decisions impact on the future of us all.
Perhaps one must accept what one cannot change.
But if we all do that, it won't.
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