Mark was one of those people. So was Mal. So was Cuthroat.
The house smelt like beer so we walked down the hill to the beach where we could wash off the facepaint and rinse out the fuzzyness. Then we got breakfast.
Mal's menu had an ad for a psychic.
"Look," she said. "He was awarded Australia's best psychic."
"That's the kind of award you know you're going to get before you get it," said Mark.