TEENAGERS Harry Wild and Ryan Hurley have bounced back without any ill-effects despite being lost in rugged Victorian bushland for four days.
The 19-year-olds who went missing while trying to sneak into the Falls Festival, near Lorne on Victoria's southwest coast, have joined up with their mates again to continue their holiday.
Mr Wild, who is originally from Melbourne, and Mr Hurley, from Mildura, spent yesterday with their parents but had since ditched them, Harry's mother Jennifer Wild said today.

"They are carrying on their holiday with their mates, it was clear to us they wanted to make up for what they had missed out on rather than spend it with us," Mrs Wild said.

The pair could not be contacted on today as they holidayed at Torquay with friends.

Mrs Wild said her husband and Mr Hurley's parents were "amazed" at the make-shift hut the men had built for shelter by Tuesday night.

"It was an absolute beauty, we were amazed they kept out the rain and kept warm," she said.
"Harry's training as a scuba diver instructor, survival skills, and first aid skills all helped and Ryan depended on them.

"Ryan's father said that if Ryan had to get lost he would want Harry to be the one with him.

"It has cemented their friendship, very much so, they will be friends for life."

Harry said yesterday "we're idiots" for trying to sneak into the music festival and getting lost.

The pair jumped out of their car after becoming impatient in traffic and left their mates to trek across bush to try and sneak into the festival without a ticket.

They became lost and disoriented trying to follow the music, were rained on throughout the first night without shelter and lost mobile phone contact with police.

A police helicopter spotted the boys early yesterday.

Harry and Ryan admitted that by Wednesday night, the third night of their bush ordeal without any food, they had feared they might die.

THE death of a woman whose body was found following a house fire is now being treated as murder after a post-mortem examination revealed she was dead before the blaze.

The 37-year-old woman was discovered in the house in Darling Street, Narre Warren, in Melbourne's southeast, on December 14.

Police initially believed her death was not suspicious but the post-mortem examination revealed her injuries indicated she was the victim of foul play.

Homicide detectives are hoping to hear from a witness who is believed to have seen a green Ford sedan flee from the area shortly before the fire was reported.

Tim is a mild man with little passion and few ambitions. He wants only to live a safe and happy life. Happiness is one of his life pursuits. He wouldn't know what to do if he                        actually found it though. He would probably have to reconsider his life. Make new goals. God forbid that ever happens.
Tim is currently sitting in a coffee shop, drinking a coffee of all things. No chocolate, no swirls, no lofty spirals of whipped cream, no sprinkles. Plain coffee with a few clouds of packaged cream. It's being stirred with a plastic stick, held between the absentminded fingers of a hand protruding from behind a newspaper. Tim is reading the newspaper. It's today's copy.
He is currently reading the sports page. Or rather, he is letting the words run through his head. He is not really paying any attention to the meaning of the words.
Now, Tim doesn't know it yet, but I have picked him for this experiment. I am about to add a little flavor to his day to see how he responds. Let the newspaper fill your vision. I am going to use an arc laser to ignite the paper. Just the corner. For now.
There. Tim has not yet noticed the flame. He is sniffing though. He will smell the smoke any moment now and respond. Be prepared to save this vision in a specific location. It's going to be worth replaying many times for analytic purposes. This will be an excellent example of some of the finer human characteristics.
There! Tim has shot to his feet and made matters worse by spilling his coffee. Why humans insist on making matters worse every time they are taken off guard is something I've often pondered. Now, he is crumpling the paper into a ball in an attempt to smother the fire. Not a bad decision for one not used to this type of circumstance. However, if you watch closely, I am about to send a high-intensity nanowave at the spilled coffee, causing it to melt through the table.
Notice that it has now been twelve seconds since the fire. He has still not uttered a sound for fear of someone's judgment. However, the man by the window is staring. Perhaps it would be good to add another person to the mix. Watch the man by the window. I am about to send a charged drift, which will blow the hat off his head, tossing it into the fire which will now begin to consume Tim's table.
There. Watch closely. Tim has finally made a sound. He has yelled for a fire extinguisher. The fire extinguisher is not going to respond. Ah ha. Two more seconds has passed and now he decides to get the extinguisher himself. Good. Somehow his fingers are still working through the panic, and he's properly activated the extinguisher. The fire is out. Fabulous.
The other man has approached now and is demanding to have his hat back. Notice how he really doesn't find it odd that it blew off his head while indoors. He has turned his confusion into anger towards Tim, only because Tim appears to be involved in the fire, which ate the man's hat.
But I remember the structure and design of the hat so I will reconstruct it for him. There we are. His hat has been reconstructed directly onto his head. What a service. He is content. And so is Tim, who has just realized that his fabulously quick thinking has put the fire out, without any damage to the table. All he needs now is a new coffee. I will let him figure that one out.
But let's get back to the class. A quick introduction is in order. Here it is:
For all of you who are new, I am Professor Quirks and this is Human Experimentation 101. Any questions?

“I am bored.”
The sphinx tapped her claws on the rock she was currently lounging on, and scanned the dusty road that stretched out in front of her. It was completely deserted.
“Lousy road. I thought this was supposed to be a main highway?”
She flexed her paws, and noticed that the red paint she’d put on her talons was beginning to flake.
“Oh and that just puts the tin lid on it! I haven’t eaten for days and now my talon paint is flaking.”
Supremely irritated, she scored a few deep grooves in the rock, and just for the hell of it added the only three words she was able to read or write.
‘Sorrel wing was here’.
She admired her handiwork briefly, before flicking her beloved tail-tuft around and running her tongue over it lovingly. She spent about half an hour absorbed in the task, and then her head snapped up as her sensitive ears made out the sound of hoof beats.
“Oooooh…food,” she purred, and sat up abruptly, shaking back her curly red hair. She’d tried to straighten it out again that morning, but it hadn’t worked. Likewise, she still had freckles, and her cute turned-up button nose was still, obstinately, cute and turned-up. Something would have to be done. After lunch.
The man coming along the road looked like a standard farmer. Sorrel wing grinned, baring her four rows of needle-sharp fangs. Perfect. Farmers had an earthy flavor that was quite pleasant, and he was unlikely to know the answer to her riddles. As he approached, she sorted through her limited imagination to find an acceptable riddle.
“Stop, mortal!”
The farmer reined in his horse and looked at her nervously. Sorrel smiled slowly at him.
“You must answer a riddle to pass. Succeed, and you may continue. Fail and you will be devoured!”
The farmer’s face cleared, to the Sphinx’s puzzlement.
“Oh, right, you’re a sphinx. So you’re going to ask me that riddle about four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon and three in the evening, right?”
Sorrel wing looked at him, and tapped her talons irritably.
“Do you have any idea how long ago Sphinxes stopped using that one? You think I’m stupid? Everyone knows the answer to that one. No. My riddle is much harder.”
The farmer swallowed, terror returning to his face. Sorrel wing grinned again, and delivered her riddle.
“Tell me…what is the average wingspan, in feet, for a mountain Roc?”
“That’s not a riddle! That’s a question!” the farmer protested. His mount shifted nervously, more aware than its master of the imminent danger.
“Oh, so you’re declining to answer, are you? That’s automatic devouring. Step forwards, please.”
“Nononono, wait!” the human gabbled, holding up his hands. “Umm…twenty feet?”
Sorrel wing pretended to think about it.
“Well…you were close…”
Her acid-green eyes lit up, and she bared all four rows of teeth.
“But not close enough!”
She leapt, spreading her wings for extra momentum, and the farmer screamed.
Shortly afterwards, all that was left of him and his horse was a small pile of ripped and bloodstained clothing, and a bridle and saddle.
Sorrel wing belched, and licked her talons.
“Perfect,” she purred, and went back to perch on her rock and wait for the next passing human.

As you come down the hill from Oakley into Hoxne you are given the impression it is a charming historical village; rustic pastel colored cottages entwined with the local legend of King Edmund. First impressions can be wrong.

Hidden inside the pretty cottages and perfumed gardens are the Hoxne Phoenix Club (ex Women’s Institute) members. These over 70s have formed their own independent branch of the WI because they refuse to ‘be dictated to’ and pay the obligatory additional £3 a month subscription fee for the WI magazine. They are not to be messed with.

You can usually find the Phoenix Club outside the post office with their deceased husband’s hunting rifles concealed in their shopping baskets and down the sides of their Zimmer frames, waiting for council house residents (their prey) to walk past.

Hoxne’s other main group meets at the Swan Pub. They selected this as a suitable meeting place because they felt that as it was built in 1480 by the Bishop of Norwich, it gives it a certain impression of prestige required of anything to be associated with them. To be a member you must be male, totally Tory, over 50, own at least 10 vintage cars and wear a brightly colored blazer with beige cords. They meet every evening to drink gin (only Gordon’s] and tonic, discuss whether snake skin or specially imported Japanese calf leather is a better car seat cover and take photos of their cars from different angles.