Dear Kell,

There’s so much to tell it’s hard to know where to start.

“LUCEAT LUX VESTRA” is Latin for let your light shine and has nothing to do with the La-bamba or any other of those exotic Latin dances. It is the motto of the alumni of many of your relatives none less than your father and I, not to mention Chris and Mathew Prestipino and maybe Ross as well. It was also the alumni of one Mark Standen who until now did his best to keep the light off, not just to save on global warming, but also to cloak his operations as a policeman for the NSW Crime Commission. Now it seems that all that power he saved is being used up in flash bulbs (how antique are they) and other media excesses as he is exposed as an (alleged) drug smuggling/dealing, gambling, whoreing miscreant. At least he’s not yet an (alleged) paedophile but who knows.

Whilst your father and I have probably reached the other end of our cooperate careers and can rely on our own records for credibility I feel for Chris and particularly Mat, both of whom only starting out, might have relied on this light that they must now hide under a bushel unless of course they intend to pursue a life of crime in which case it may turn out a great windfall. If that’s Cat I hear sniggering beside you then let me warn her that it’s only a matter of time till Loreto Normanhurst is caught in its own Madam Fleiss style scandal. Mind you women never seem to be able to scandalise quite so effectively as men, I’ve yet to hear of a female paedophile, yet another example of that glass ceiling I guess. Also I suspect. Hugh may have something to answer for here as history will show that he was a potential teacher/mentor of this (alleged) innocent lad whose yearbook photo I shall attempt to include. I note that his ripple cut hair does looks a lot like mine when I was about his age however I deny any implication that this may indicate complicity in his downward spiral.

According to Paola Totaro’s recent articles in The Herald, youth drunkenness in the UK has reached epidemic proportions with tragic consequences that have resulted in a ban on drinking in the underground. I find this irreconcilable with your emails etc. and conclude that Paola either lives at the wrong end of town or, just like many from the gutter press, creates news from her own paranoid imagination rather than relying on observed facts as you and I do. She is also inclined to rave on about knifings, as if. Her publicity shot portrays her as a peer but cameras lie and who knows how old it is. At the same time I do advise that you steer clear of those wearing swords and feathered hats no matter how many medals they wear on their chests.

Now just returned from the city, where the Chinese door bitches at the Gaelic Club wanted a preposterous thirty two dollars (how much is that in pounds) admission for a gig by The Sorrowfulls, or some such, Melbourne funk band supported by my friends The Organ Donors (no not the Orgasm Donors), I wonder if my faith in your perceptive reportage is misplaced. I mean you seldom report the cost of living in terms a provincial could understand let alone the sights and condition of folk you encounter in your neighbourhood. This afternoon in Enmore I came across an outdoor café diner with his Queensland Blue cattle dog (wankish enough in Enmore you’d think) in matching Dry-as-a-bones. Now choosing the evening walk back from the city, for the obvious health advantages this Sunday night of your Queens Birthday weekend, I encounter and take note of those who populate my environment. Mostly lovers, boy / girl, boy / boy, boy / self, girl / girl you know them I’m sure but then there are the oddities. Like the quite well dressed gentleman who seems to have forgotten his trousers shoes and socks when dressing for this evenings outing or the ‘homeless’ person huddled in the just out of package and pristine queen size doona outside the bank. These are the pictures I want from your London, not instead of but accompanying your usual delightful internal experience.

Meanwhile down here on the bottom of the globe things progress as usual, prices rise, especially petrol and diesel, your folks might be wise to sit around Mission Beach through winter for more than just the spectacular environment and climate. Mr Budd, beginning to loose his just out of the package shine, looks just like another Prime Minister which had to be expected. Sports people, never seeming to find winning or loosing enough, continue to inflicting us with the humdrum of their lives just as do many other wannabes. Artists continue to be arty and dramatic always complaining about lack of recognition and finances. If it weren’t for the streets of Enmore and the like where real people come to display their stupidity and carelessness in not wearing trousers life would seem grim indeed I think.

Meanwhile my voice sounds so good to me in my radio less car that I could probably start a new career as a singer if only I could remember the words to a song. How do singers do that? I have learnt all the words to St James Infirmary and can sing it in about nine different styles. If you care to take a drive with me sometime I’ll demonstrate. I’m not as silly as those Enmore street people.

Love you all
Aunty