Sydney Domestic Terminal, where dreams do come true

I've been in Sydvillea this weekend, for a medicinal dose of sibling, with added niecephews. This was all very lovely - hugs, cake, nephewite saxophone performances - except that I am still in Sydvillea, and tomorrow's a school day. I was meant to leave twenty minutes ago, but a certain airline (let's call it "Jetstar") has deferred my flight by almost TWO HOURS. If anyone's round Mascot and got nuffing better to do, you'll find me in the Safe Internetting Room next to the Travelex, trying to keep it cool with a syringe of www dangling from a minor artery.

The flight north was enlivened by a herd of warthogs AFL players, setting forth on their post-season sojourn to Coogee. According to the warthog beside me, they'd downed two slabs of superior beer before their 9 am flight, and proceeded to buy more from the Flight Attendant of Superhuman and Frankly Slightly Creepy Tolerance. The conversation went like this:

Warthog Beside Me: Hey Protein Bar!

Protein Bar is silent.

Warthog Beside Me: Hey, P.B.! Check out this chick [points to photograph of Jennifer Hawkins in inflight magazine]. She's ridiculously hot. Hey, Knuckles! What are you eating, you dirty bugger?

Knuckles: Chips.

Warthog Beside Me: Don't give any to Protein Bar.

Lock up your daughters, Coogeeans. Here's hoping these paragons of footballitude are with me on the trip home. Another hour and a half of dialogue like that and I'll be writing the great Australian radio play before sun-up.