A graveyard of shitboxes. And the Coach & Horses. And that's Clarkfield, really.
ON THE way home today, I make a pit stop at Clarkfield’s Coach & Horses, an 1857 bluestone pub said to be spooked by myriad ghosts. The only things haunting the public bar today, though, are a couple of old geezers watching Australia’s Funniest Home Videos, under the watchful eye of a musty moose head.
A strange thing happens when I get home and I go to put the kettle on… and it’s already hot. My comrade arms himself with a kitchen knife and does the rounds, but nothing leaps out at us. I get a flashback to the psychic from Day 8 telling me about an 80-year-old lady still squatting the house. I guess that puts paid to any future “me time”.
Keeper? An exorcism might be in order. That’s not a euphemism.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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