By Denise Probert
No Longer the Cartoonist’s Muse
I thought you loved my floppy golden fringe as you called it. I still think I look pretty cute. I thought you’d never fatigue of sketching my “cherubic cheeks”, as you termed them, in profile or face on.
I know I sometimes slipped into the vernacular, but surely I could’ve been forgiven? The petty irritations of the life I had to lead made me explode at times, but nobody’s perfect. After all the hard work I have done for you, after all my sacrifices for you my people. I barely slept. What did I do wrong? I never dreamt my reward would be to be tossed aside after less than three years. What has she got that I haven’t got?
Now I’ve had a gutful. My stomach burns and churns. But I can’t escape her pictures everywhere, critics raving about her creamy skin, her curves, her auburn bob of glossy hair. The sickening swill I swallowed of loyalty, best friends forever. I can’t believe however was I taken in by her? Friends say you’re always the last to know. How true. How true. Oh it’s now a fickle faithless world. The Chinese would have a word for it. She can’t even speak Australian without a whine!
Now having said that, now let me say this: let’s see how long this one lasts!