It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets of Adelaide, rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. A band of linguists sat round the fire, poking the ashes with an ancient instrument the name of which they had carelessly mislaid. Their eyes remained fixed on the decrepit Dutch oven (‘You mean a casserole’. ‘Nope, a bedourie’) in the middle of the dying fire in which their dinner was slowly cooking. ‘Tell us a story’, said one. ‘All right’, said Luciana, ‘I will‘ ……….