Empathising with an Australian cricketer, especially when the subject is admiring his self-dug hole, is a risky proposition. One that is pregnant with enormous ramifications.
A mere click of the tongue followed by a sympathetic shake of the head and you've completed devil's invocation.
Almost as a matter of destiny, your explicitly un-parliamentary text messages land on your boss' cell. Your near ones perceive you as a delinquency on the local garbage-collector's part. Your neighbour's dog relieves itself on your new bike and withdraws with the content look of someone who has just watered a thirsty sapling.
In short, life finds various ways to punish you for your indiscretion.
But have a heart and look at Luke. Luke Pomersbach I meant.
Drunk to the gills, he was convinced of Perth's irrelevance in modern Australia and had nearly pulled it down with his car before the killjoy cops booked him.
His lawyer later told the court that it was actually a tiff with his girlfriend that rekindled Luke's interest in organic chemistry, encouraging him to assess if the popular theory of alcohol's grief-dissolving properties hold any water.
Thanks Luke, for reminding it. Let's face it, we have a little bit of Devdas in all of us.
Pix: Lincoln Baker