Art imitates... uh, is that meant to be some sort of bird?

The yearly local piss-up. The Moyston Art Show. It was summed up when one bloke said he'd been on his farm for nearly 20 years, so he was "nearly a local". Everyone laughed, but it was hollow laughter, as it was only too true.

The local ladies clucked around the art, those who weren't busily keeping a steady supply of savoury what-nots on constant rotation. The local men stood around uncomfortably, and tried not to crush their wine glasses in their enourmous hands, chafing in the uncomfortable restraits of non-flannel collared shirts. I passively participated in careful debates over the relative merits of different varieties of oats. And if that should get too rowdy, any disagreement could be settled in an disarmingly simple way, as nobody would disagree that we need rain.

I was repeatedly mistaken for my brother. Luckily, it wasn't the brother who, a while ago, ran over the dog of one lady I met in his big ute. For some reason, quite a few people thought I lived in America, or were quite shocked that I existed, quite content to beleive that I was a local myth. I also ran into two of my old teachers from high school, one from drama and the other from home economics. It was no dead poets society 2, that's all I can say.

Dad bought his bit of art, everyone purred in approval. When it finished, everyone stumbled out of hall, pissed as newts (newts are notorious alcoholics), waved one another a cheery goodbye, got into their cars/utes and swerved off down the road. If you'd mentioned point-oh-five, they'd think you were talking about a gun with a very, very, small bullet.