The silence round these parts has not been the sound of me chewing my silkworm way through the mulberry leafitude of yon collective first year essay. No. It has been the sound of me riding a giant wooden wombat round the streets of Dame Nellie Melbourne.
Ladies and gennelmen, I bring you "The Charge of the Light Wombat Brigade" (one verse only):
Half a league, half a league,
Riding the wombat
Into the burrow of Swanston
Street, unto combat.
"Go, trusty quadruped!"
"Charge for the lights", she said.
Onto the tram, they lept.
N.B. The above photograph is not to be circulated amongst employers, present or future, second cousins, prospective friends, or shown to the man next door.