Henderson's Comeback

You seem to have made an effort at sweeping, judging by the change in masthead of your inevitable publication. Ah, such a pity that the broom is so old and hairless—bald, in fact. It is my considered opinion (and the opinion of many with whom I have deigned to speak) that this newspaper (and after so many years writing for it I am afraid I cannot bring it upon myself to call it a rag) is altogether too serious. Even more serious than its predeccessors. Maybe it is because this is the first time I have entered these hallowed offices this year.

On the other hand, maybe I have nothing to do with it at all. Who will ever know? Is this one of the questions that mankind is destined never to find out? Is it fated to become the major stumbling block in attempts to reconcile the conflict between the National Government and the Cooks and Stewards Union? Who will ever know whether it was this problem unsolvable that caused Rob Muldoon to call his wife by the wrong name in the height of marital splendour last night? Who will ever know?

These are questions which should beset the mind of every bent-thinking person living on the odd side of Hill St today and prompt a reincarnation of the Thorndon Apathy League of yore.

I certainly hope so.

All I need is the air that I breathe and a four-finger deal in my pocket.

Then I will, finally, be happy, content in the knowledge that the man standing on his head in the middle of Kelburn parade is in fact yourself, dear editor, posing for the cover of your first solo album.

Yours from the rarified air and stoned glory of the Mars Hotel.