The Wombats of Wombatland were like a car without a steering wheel, lost and directionless they wandered the arid landscape in search of direction and motivation. "Whichway? Whichway?" they chanted as they drifted aimlessly.

Bob, stuck on the other side of the globe, felt pretty much the same way. His life was meaningless without his furry little friends, if only Wombats were actually found in the nether regions of Pretoria. Alas the closest he could get was a meeting with the neighbourhood Maltese Poodles who only spoke dog with an Afrikaans dialect

However the Gods who look after budding sci-fi aficionados must have felt a measure of pity and one fine day his calling came in a buff envelope bearing the postmark "Wombatland, NSW, AUS." It had been totally unmolested by the post office, which in itself was a good sign. Bob admired the stamp and without hesitating further ripped it open, finding within the engraved goldleaf invitation which was his ticket to paradise.

"Dear Esteemed One," The letter greeted in an olde worlde copperplate handwriting.

"Please be accepting my most humble apologies for the great disturbances I have been causing you. We, the inhabitants of Wombatland, NSW, AUS. (aka the Wombats of Wombatland) are in dire need of direction and cause for existing. Please be finding enclosed ticket (first class) for you to come to our fine land and show us the path to greatness, we will achieve this only if pointed like that by your most esteemed hand."

The letter was signed "Walter W. Wombat."

Bob was enthralled and just a little bit touched by the request, there was no need to even consult with the tea leaves, horoscopes or auguries, and he quickly packed his backpack, notebook, lunch tin, pictures of Sci-fi babes and a variety of assorted obscure items, which he thought would be appropriate in his new role as a Deity in Wombatland. A quick call confirmed his flight and 3 weeks later he stepped off the Dakota which landed occasionally at the ragged airstrip which was all manner of civilisation they had in Wombatland.

It was a dry and desolate place, strange ragged trees shaded patches of dry ground and mud. Small rocks and mounds of various heights cluttered the area. All around ragged piles of demoralized wombats slouched and clustered. They all seemed devoid of direction and each little snout pointed in a different direction. There was an aura of restlessness and low self esteem all around.

One wombat looked up.. saw Bob and rose to his feet…. "The Bob!!! The Bob!!! The Bob!!"

Others looked up, taking up the chant until it drowned out the noise of cicadas which permeated everything. "THE BOB!! THE BOB!! THE BOB!!!"

Bob was honoured to be recognised in this way, it surely indicated that wombatdom had reached a plateau of development and now needed further guidance to point it in the right direction.

"Friends, Wombats, Countrymen, lend me your ears.."

A silence fell over the area, even the cicadas waited with baited breath and paused noisemakers. "I come not to change, but to guide. I seek no reward except high speed Internet access and as many pictures of Sci-fi babes that you have."

A low murmur fell over the assembled wombats, growing in cadence as more and more small voices took up the chant "Scully, Scully, Scully…"

Bob held up a hand for silence.

"Er… who is Scully??" a voice from the back asked.

Bob took out on of his prized Scully pictures and held it aloft. "This is Scully."

The same voice at the back was heard once again "Hubba Hubba… hot babe huh??"

Everybody turned around and glared at the sheepish looking wombat.

A wombat stepped forward, he was grayer than the others, and seemed to keep himself aloof from the crowd. "I am Walter W. Wombat, I wrote the letter to you oh much exalted one."

Bob crouched down at this voice of reason, "I am pleased to meet you Walter. Come, we must talk, I must download mail, look at pictures of Sci-fi babes and prepare to meet with the daughters of eligible wombats."

Walter looked wisely at Bob, "You will find that our net access is very outmoded, and that conditions here are very similar to those in parts of the Free State in South Africa."

Bob was aghast… "we must remedy that immediately."

Walter steered Bob towards a mound of dried mud with a door made out of flattened coke tins, "the accommodation isn't much I am afraid, but it has all the mod cons."

"Running water? Air conditioning? Jacuzzi? Wall to wall carpeting?"

"Not quite, but the floor is covered in fresh manure."

"Aaaaah, as long as I can hang up my pictures of Scully."

Ducking and squirming Bob was able to get inside his new abode, "the roof is a bit low, but the floor is really.. er.. um.. fresh."

Walter tended to agree, seeing as Bob was bent at the waist. "I will get a work detail to attend to raising the roof as soon as possible. First however you must address the people, they have waited a long time for you."

Bob rummaged in his luggage and took out an A4 envelope covered in red "handle with care" stickers and followed Walter outside to where the wombats waited with baited breath.

"My friends... I would like to thank you for this opportunity to live amongst you. I bring gifts of Scully."

There was a murmur which grew in cadence "SCULLY!! SCULLY!! SCULLY!!!"

Bob raised a picture of Gillian Anderson above has head "THIS IS SCULLY!"

The crowd was enthusiastic "SCULLY! SCULLY! SCULLY!!!"

Bob raised a picture of 7 of 9 from Star Trek Voyager above his head "THIS IS 7 of 9"

The crowd went wild "7 OF 9! 7 OF 9! 7 OF 9!"

Bob raised a picture of Jadzia Dax from Deep Space 9 above his head "THIS IS DAX!!"

The crowd threw their hats in the air "DAX! DAX! DAX!"

The voice at the back piped up "Nice spots huh??"

Everybody turned and glared at the lone voice of wombatdom in the back row.

"Well… she has!!!"

Ignoring the interruption, Bob continued, raising the picture of Scully above his head once again, "WHO IS THIS??"

The crowd never even paused for breath "WHO IS THIS?? WHO IS THIS?? WHO IS THIS??"

"Walter, these guys are not going to win any medals for brightness."

Walter nodded sadly, "That's true your most exhalted one, but I blame it on the bland diet."

10 wombats staggered forward under the weight of a throne made of eucalyptus branches and Bob gingerly levered himself into it, surveying his "Kingdom". There wasn't really much to see, just row upon row of eager fuzzy faces and Bob realised there was going to be a lot of hard work ahead of him, years of blood, sweat, toil and tears, with a side order of fries. He hoped that one-day archaeologists from the future could come to Wombatland and discover stone monoliths arranged in random circular patterns and be suitably puzzled. Just as he started to consider the feasibility of erecting large stone busts of himself a hubbub broke out amongst the serried ranks of wombats. One strode to within a peach pits throw from Bob.

"Go home foreign devil, wombats never will be slaves!!" he shouted, pointing a grubby paw in Bobs direction.

"Walter, who is this?"

"Don't ask your questions of old wombats! ask me!!! I too am an individual!! If you stomp on my paws do I not scream?? If you kick me up the rear end do I not fly???"

"Ok, so whats your name then??"

"Er... 613."

"613? That’s very original"

"We are a big family."

"Aaaah, ok, so tell me 613, why must I go home?? its pretty obvious to me that the majority of wombats here want me to stay and feed me excessive amounts of eucalyptus and dried bugs. What has prevented your people from dragging themselves into the new Millennium??"

"A lack of opposable thumbs" Walter whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Too much roughage in our diet" somebody piped up from the back.

"A shortage of water born sewerage."

"Too much sun!!"

"Too little sun!!"

"Oppression by years of MCW's" That comment came from a smaller wombat wearing a camouflage headscarf and an attitude.

"Er… what is a MCW??"

"Call yourself wise Bob?? It’s a Male Chauvinist Wombat".

Much enlightened, Bob pondered the ever increasing tension as suddenly the years of oppressed feelings erupted amongst Wombatdom and everybody started to add his tiny voice to the throng of protest. It was rapidly deteriorating into a riot! A peach pit hit Bob on the forehead, then somebody pushed somebody else and the next thing there was a fist (or what passed for a fist) fight. Bob ducked behind the throne, "Walter, are they always like this??"

Walter nodded sadly "Alas, that's all they have to do all day is fight amongst themselves and complain!! I can't take it anymore Bob, they are driving me up the wall!!! Please take me out of here...."

Bob and Walter ducked behind the throne and waited till the miniature war had reached a crescendo before sneaking out the back way. They sneaked until they reached the main road, then hitched a ride in a passing kangaroo's pouch to Sydney. Then they persuaded Qantas to swap the first class ticket for 2 singles in coach and hopped the next 747 to Pretoria.

The customs officer at the airport was nonplussed when he saw the elderly wombat with the small suitcase approaching the desk in the red channel.

"Good morning sir, anything to declare?"

Walter grinned and hugged the custom officers leg, "Its great to be away from that heap of smelly, quarrelling wombats."

Bob came strolling along, his clothes bedraggled and his hair awry.. "Oh yeah? just you wait till you get to the local taxi rank, you will wish that you were back in Wombatland, NSW, AUS."

The customs officer shook his head... "Bloody foreigners!! Where do they think they are?"