I spent most of the day today writing a story for the Western Advocate on confrontations between white settlers and Aborigines around Bathurst in 1824. I emailed Keith Windshuttle to get a quote; not expecting a reply. I also tried to get a hold of Andrew Bovell, who wrote the play Holy Day. No luck. I don’t think I’m far enough up the food chain. Didn’t persist. The day before yesterday, I went out to the Suttor’s farm at Brucedale. There were darling little week-old lambs, I carried them one under each arm to stop them running through the gates. A tinge of green. It’s been a bad drought, the green tinge is only superficial. On the way out there, Sarina Andrew and I compared notes on how bad we both are at sense of direction. Then I knocked on the door of the wrong house and introduced her to the wrong person. She thought that was hilarious. John Suttor (once we found him) had a blood nose. He didn’t mention it. I noticed it and asked him if he was all right. The photos show him with a blood nose. That was Thursday. The next day, yesterday, I went out to Abercrombie House to interview the president of the Bathurst Historical Society about the disposession of the Wiradjuri. He showed me a marble fireplace upstairs. As we tiptoed up to the door, he said, “Excuse me Father.” Father mentioned that just this year, he was in Buckingham palace. I took photos of the marble fireplace which is made of reddish marble extracted from the Borenore caves. Apparently the same sort of marble is in Buckingham Palace, that’s according to Father. On the floor was a magnificent, if rather faded, tiger skin complete with large head and glass eyes.