  Greetings, droogies. After a tantalising weekend with our esteemed colleague Zenny.dome, followed by an investigation of the Australian Centre for the Moving Image at Federation Square with Zork, I found myself, finally, heading back to Bendigo on the usual method of transportation: the V-Line train. Having had a splendid weekend, I settled myself down stretched along the length of a three-seater and so reclined began reading Euripides' The Women of Troy , a fascinating play about the women given as slaves to the victorious Argives after the fall of Ilium. These include Hecabe, former wife of Priam and Queen of Troy, her prophetic daughter Cassandra, whose uptaking by Agamemnon is one reason for his death at the hands of his wife Clytaemnestra, and poor Andromache, who having lost her husband Hector must also lose her infant son, Astyanax, before being taken, ironically, by Achilles' son as his consort.
Now, this is fascinating stuff, I assure you, and I was well immersed in said literature when I looked up and noticed a girl strangely poking her own hips for some reason. I found this somewhat amusing, and could not restrain a polite smile. The girl was horrified, for what reason I really can't say, and covered her face in embarassment. I watched with some mirth as she attempted to compose herself, but every time she caught my eye, would burst out laughing again. This behaviour continued despite her deliberately subdued efforts to avoid my gaze, such as wearing her sunglasses for a time, to no effect. You should, at this juncture, be made aware that your humble narrator found this delightful chickadee to be tremendously gorgeous, and exceptionally hefty to boot. With that in mind, you could imagine my great difficulty in restraining myself from even occasionally glancing in said siren's direction.
Needless to say, each time I did this elicited more of the same; a bountiful smile, or sublime laughter. These not being terrible things, I felt encouraged to do so at regular intervals. These antics continued the entire length of the trip, ensuring that as yet I have not completed my reading of The Women of Troy , namely because the Women of Castlemaine were far more alluring at the time.
Unfortunately (or, as I will outline in a moment, fortunately) for I, this lithe goddess and her friend departed the train at aformentioned township, ensuring there would be no post-trip charm or speculation to be had. So yes, my faithful readers, I was unable to catch so much as a name from said beauty before she swept away into the darkness. I was, however, rather unexpectedly rewarded with a seductive wave goodbye from the pair as the train lumbered from the station.
At this point in time, my inclination to misfortune was somewhat alleviated, as my own modest estimate as to their age would have been seventeen or eighteen. My friends, I implore you, if I am allowed to continue attracting the attention of said nubile sirens, and especially if they continue to arouse the same interest as this one did, there can only be one conclusion: I am going to jail. 
