Fortunately, Spockfingers has a cousin on "the other side" who suffers equally from wind, and when I emerged via a water spout just off some cliffs on the Tasmanian coastline, he or she "let rip" and down I went once again, back through the hole from whence I came. I gave Doug McClure a wave as I sped past.
The searing heat of the earth's core ruptured the ropes which bound me to the trolley (yes, ropes) and when I bobbed to the surface in the Bay I found myself well and truly "off my trolley" and able to leg it for shore.
I can't swim very well, but circumstances being as they were, I managed to make it, and at quite a speedy rate. It helped that I kept seeing a large black fin looming into my line of vision.
My wool was absolutely sodden by the time I got to shore, and it was with great difficulty that I managed to clamber up the winding cliffside path back to the Rocky Outcrop.
I was met at the door by Razor Bill, who was delivering the post.
"Where on earth have you been, Tuppy?"
"Australia," I replied proudly, seizing a bundle of letters. All from Geoffrey! I'm just drying my wool off by a roaring driftwood fire, and calming my nerves with a glass of madeira, and then I'll settle down to have a good read.
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