Wight There Ath It Happenth

The other Era footy journalists were gathered in the centre of the room talking about time trials at early pre-season training sessions.

"God, I miss footy," said Liam.

Caro sniffed haughtily as she passed them. This was the time of year she liked most - no footy. It meant the whole working week - all 12 hours of it - could be devoted to pursuing personal agendas, colluding with the league to better those personal agendas and continuing her ongoing hypnotherapy to erase the memory of that time Dad had come home with a skinful and kicked her cat to death in the living room after Keith Grieg had pipped Kevin Bartlett to the 1973 Brownlow medal.

She sat at her desk and read the long piece she'd just written about fallen North star Wayne Carey and his autobiography. Not that she'd actually read said autobiography. But why let that get in the way of a good story? She saved it into her North Melbourne/Kangaroos/Gold Coast folder, which contained 750 gigabytes of material.

The next biggest, the West Coast/Benny When He Was Bad And Not Totally Reformed And A Model Citizen Like He Is Now He's At The Tiges folder had just over 700.

For old times sake, she glanced through the North folder. Such fond memeories. There was the two years campaign she's led claiming that North would relocate to the Gold Coast. She pulled up one of her favourite pieces, the one where she claimed the smart money was on the league overseeing a relocation of North.

And who could forget that brilliant campaign about a video of a chicken doing silly things. She fondly recalled how she'd suggested repeatedly that Mazda would abandon North over the issue. That was the thing about being a senior football writer. People believed you because you had the inside track.

She lay back in her ergonomic chair and closed her eyes and allowed herself to repose. Within seconds, she was asleep.

Then again, she was having the dream. It was the last week in September of 1973, Caro was just 13 and lamenting the fact that dental technology was not yet advanced enough to deal with the hideous rows of shark like teeth protruding from her bottom jaw.

There she was, playing with Mr Tiddles, her beloved cat. She'd been allowed to stay up and watch the Brownlow medal telecast from the Southern Cross Ballroom. Everybody knew that Richmond hero Kevin Bartlett was a shoo-in to win. But then something horrible happened. A nobody from those poverty stricken losers at North Melbourne began racking up votes. Nobody had ever heard of him. And he played on the wing or something.

It was horrible, like a train coming towards her and she couldn't get out of the way. Finally, in the end, it came. Her beloved Kevin had been beaten. By a North Melbourne player.

She was still sobbing and clutching Mr Tiddles tight an hour later when her father came bursting into the room, red faced and belligerent.

"FAAAAARRRK!" he screamed, "There'll be no holiday to Dromana this summer. I bet all our money on KB!"

The noise and the kerfuffle had startled Mr Tiddles, who leapt out of Caros' arms.

"NOT FUCKEN YOU TOO!" her Dad roared at the small creature as it came towards him, "I'VE HAD A GUTFUL OF THIS SHIT!"

With that he took a quick step forward and launched his right leg forward, catching Mr Tiddles square betwdeen his four legs and sending the unfortunate feline hurtling through the air, paws splayed wildly, heading towards the back wall of trhe living room at what could only be a fatal velocity.

Caro's eyes opened before Mr Tiddles hit said wall with a sickening thud and slid down to the skirting board lifeless and leaving a thin trail of blood behind him. She always woke up just before that.

She blinked awake and opened her email. It was a from the layout boys asking what she intended doing for her column the next day.

North she thought suddenly, I'll do something on North. She didn't know why, she just had a feeling in her bones there was something wrong down at Arden Street that needed investigating. And even if there wasn't she'd find something.