That tribune of the people, the Gaius Gracchus of Adelaide; that saint who walks amongst men; that moral paragon whose good deeds shine out in a naughty world - I speak of James Hurtle Fisher, Resident Commissioner of the South Australian Company - has once more had his rectitude upheld.
A public meeting was held a week or so ago where the friends and supporters of Fiddlefingers Fisher all pottered along to prove their friendship by supporting him. All present expressed their outrage that a man of the unsullied reputation of Fisher might be insulted and benighted by the outrageous suggestion that he explain his actions to the populace he serves.
Fortunately Fisher's friends and supporters were able to prove to the satisfaction of Fisher's friends and supporters that he was as white as the driven snow and purified with hyssop. He had toiled unceasingly for the good of the Colony and its Colonists and it was merest co-incidence that money had come his way. At one point, I hear, someone offered to table the Company books to prove the poor man innocent, but such faith did the assembled throng of friends and supporters have in the saintly Mr Fisher that they held up their hands in horror and scorned the suggestion. "We would not hear of such a thing! Tempt us not with the suggestion that we need anything so gauche as PROOF! Do we need to place our hand in his side and our finger in his hole? We believe!"
And so, of course the half man half rabbit comes out of it all without stain on his escutcheon and will go his merry way. And in the meantime, without surprise, somehow it seems to have been sheeted home to yours truly.
It seems that the friends, supporters and apostles of Saint James have decided that the South Australian Gazette is to blame for impugning the reputation of the dear man. And of course, they feel that the South Australian Gazette too closely follows my opinions and whims. So clearly it follows as night does day that the Gazette's attack on St James must have started at my desk.
As if I would say a word in public against the hideous blot on the colony; the whited sepulchre; the carbuncle on the colony's arse; the foul little gibbering marmoset! Not a word have I uttered!
So now the friends and supporters of Mr Fisher have decided that they will start their own journal of news and opinion. And the Colony, a place that barely produces enough gossip to fill one edition a month of one broadsheet will find itself with two; one to present the views of St James the half rabbit and the other to present, it seems, mine.
What piffle the lot of it is!
I must record my eternal admiration of my Sister Anne. She is acting almost as a missionary to the people of the colony, helping those who are down and out. I have had many young men of the working class speak to me of the comfort that the touch of my sister's hand has brought them.
Her most recent project is the Marines who, God knows, are about as down and out as it is possible to be. And certainly they need as much help as they could possibly receive.
My sister, bless her, has spent long hours at the Marines camp, providing them with what succour she can. A pot of tea here, a button sewn on there, a kind word and a smile: these are, it seems, what my dear sister provides to those young men and how much they must appreciate it!
I note with shock and horror that Mr Lee and his Coffee Pavilion are stocked with cakes and fancy buns baked by Mrs Whittle. MRS WHITTLE!!! Who used to be Mary-Jane Murray, that paragon of the cooking skillet who used to cook my breakfast until Mrs Hindmarsh lumbered me with Lucrezia, the Mad Poisoner. I purchased a sticky bun there and silently wept as I ate it.
Then went home and found that the Widow Harvey had prepared something called Northumberland Hasty Fritters. Well I certainly wouldn't be in any haste to go to Northumberland if those God awful fritters were anything to go by,
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