I can't keep away from my cat Dinah, even though I'm allergic to her and have to give her baths, which she hates. And I spend hours building lego pirate ships and space ships...and sometimes going with Favel to St Kevin's Church of the Holy Kapow on Sundays. That's what got me started writing my versions of bible stories.

Jürgen Klinsmann is my ultimate hero, of course. Apart from my father who is New Guinea most of the time. It's funny, but I actually know more about Jürgen Klinsmann than my dad because I see him (Jürgen) on the telly and read about him in soccer magazines.

What I hate is when someone like Danielle or my mother can't control themselves and just have to tell me that it was my fault. Whatever it was, it was my fault. Like, the CD-player doesn't work any more. How could that be my fault? I didn't have anything to do with it. (Well, I did take it apart to have a little look, but that's only the natural curiosity I inherited from my dad.)

It's almost true that I've stopped telling lies. So I am not a congenital liar, like Kevin once accused me, which sounds rude but just meant I couldn't help it, which is true, because from an early age (so I have been told) I have not been able to tell the difference between imagination and reality.

I mean, what is real, anyway?

Is soccer real? We all run around kicking a ball with grim looks on our faces (except for me, 'cos I can hardly ever stop smiling) but the winner of the game is the team that has put the ball into the goal more times than the other team. But who counts the goals? I mean, I can remember several matches where I kicked a goal (and once I headed it in) and the other kids said later, 'Naah--you didn't, Dudley.

A bad case of imaginitis, Mrs Sanderson would say.

I can remember things that happened when I was little, like when a steam train came down the middle of our street and my family got on board and we choofed away to a holiday village in the Swiss Alps.

And when my friend and I found the underwater cave at Alum Cliffs. Full of treasure and octopuses.

A severe case of imaginitis, said my father.

But, if it's a case of memory, who's to tell which memory is right? I mean, lots of people believe that what it says in the Bible is true, yet how do we know that it is (or was) in any one's memory at all and is not just made up?

There are just so many ancient stories that might or might not be true. Or they might be partly true and partly false. Or perhaps they might not be realistically true but they might have a deep meaning that is true.

Maybe my memories are like that. Some of the things didn't really happen but the main idea behind the memory was true. Like, I could have scored a goal when we played Clutchins last week but Dylan got in the way at the last moment and wanted the glory all to himself and ended up stuffing up and missing the goal by a metre whereas I would have got it in, I'm sure of it. Because I was as cool and calm and collected as Jürgen Klinsmann and everything was just slow motion for me, I had set up the goal so well. I had already pictured the goal in my mind so realistically that now I can remember it clearly. Maybe, in another dimension, I really did kick that goal. Maybe in other dimensions everything that can be imagined does happen. Perhaps I have better access to the other dimensions.

Like, I can remember Alice and I playing together when I was little but the other kids just say, 'Naaah, Alice didn't live in Hobart then.' But I can remember. And when I asked Alice she said, 'Well, I have a vague memory...' So it's possible, isn't it?

And there probably is treasure somewhere near the Alum Cliffs because so many ships sank in the old days. And there are definitely octopuses in the area because I saw one once sunbaking on a rock at low tide.

And what about the Greek myths and legends? Ms Rubenach says they are pretty good explanations for why the world is like it is. We have gods and heroes nowadays, don't we? Well, heroes, anyway. I'm not sure if Michael Jordan is a god or not. Some people worship him.

I love the Greek heroes, especially Ulysses who battled the one-eyed Cyclops and Hercules who battled the many-headed Hydra.

Actually, I think I was named after some Greek inventor because I'm always taking things apart and trying to put them back again.

The only thing is, I've been called Dudley from Day One and my parents couldn't've possibly known I was born to be a fiddler.

So to speak.

I mean I do play the violin a bit. Since I was four. It sounded bad for the first few years. I remember my dad (when he used to live with us) saying we could use me as a security alarm. The burg-u-lars (he used to call them) would run a mile.

Now I'm quite good at violin because my teenage teacher, Amazon Coram, who is really tough, makes me do everything just right. She insists on posture, for instance:

When you are seated--keep your right thigh off the chair so your pelvis and lower back won't be restricted. (She makes me repeat this stuff aloud and to write it in my violin homework book, as well as actually doing it, would you believe!)

Playing seated--the right thigh must be off the chair to minimise restriction to the pelvis and lower back.

And she tells me to face forward to prevent tension and restriction in my head and neck.

She yelps if I turn my head too much and press my chin too hard into the chin rest. 'A recipe for tension,' she cries. (I mean, could you relax with someone yelling at you like that?)

Like, because my arms aren't quite long enough yet I've got to rotate Struddles (that's the name of my violin) so as my left elbow can move far enough for me to reach the upper fingerboard.

Despite all this haranguing (as my mother would say) I quite like fiddling with Struddles now that a nice noise comes out of her. As a mutter of fact (I mutter because I'm slightly embarrassed) I'm aiming to play the violin at a school assembly soon. Now that I've gone up from quarter to half to three quarters and now full size at least I don't feel such a dag and people won't criticise me.

And some of the kids, like Dylan for instance, actually say they like it.

Mind you, nothing could be as embarrassing as it would feel to be Dylan singing his face off trying to impress Mrs Sanderson.

Although I have been known to be embarrassed, too. Especially when people tease me about my name. Like the time Danielle found this notice about a burial ground, for goodness' sake. I think she was suggesting I might have a communicable disease or something. It was like when we were little kids and the boys pretended the girls had germs--and vice versa.

Now she calls me Deadly Dudley and stuff like that.


My descriptive video is going to be a bible story: maybe about King David or maybe about Jesus' passion and crucifixion. Or maybe Samson and Delighta. We hear all this boring stuff at church but when you start to read it for yourself you realise how interesting it is. In fact, we'll call the video: The Bible. No we won't, we'll call it Crossroads. That sounds a bit more original. Though it will start with the creation and Adam and Eve, I suppose. And end with Revelation.

Wait till you hear the bit about the Roman soldier on the parapet. (Ten thousand pages later.)

Hmmf. Amazon told me a good story the other day that probably isn't true but has truth in it:

After a concert, an admirer once came up to the famous violinist, Heifitz and said to him: 'What a lovely sound your violin makes.' Heifitz held it up to his ear, frowned and said: 'I don't hear anything.'

It's like that with people's heads. You can sit right next to them while you're in assembly or quietly reading and you can't hear a thing. Yet there there's so much noise going on inside there. AND pictures, movies, smells, memories...

I've got so many memories I think my head would explode if I didn't keep so cool. I think it's also the reason why I am an inventor (or at least a take-it-apart-erer) because it settles me down and takes my mind off all the memories that hum inside me.

And that's no lie, even if Kevin says that all Tasmanians are liars.

Including me.