Dear Todd, What gives? I al­ways look for­ward to the ar­rival of in my let­ter box each month. From around 10.30 on a Satur­day morn­ing, I make reg­u­lar half-hourly treks out­side to check if it has ar­rived — as the postie al­ways folds it in half to stuff it in the slot, the least amount of time it spends in this state the bet­ter! With my prized mag­a­zine open in front of me on the din­ing ta­ble and a freshly brewed coffee close at hand, I be­gin my dis­sec­tion of the month’s in­stal­ment. For the next cou­ple of hours or so, my wife be­comes an­other ‘ widow’. Af­ter first quickly flick­ing through each page to have a look at the pic­tures, as I al­ways tend to do, it wasn’t un­til I was about three-quar­ters of the way through that I no­ticed I hadn’t seen any posters. A quick back­track to the cen­tre of the mag­a­zine con­firmed that there were no posters! Surely both a blown big block Hemi–pow­ered Charger and ‘New Zealand’s Wildest Fal­con’ were more than suit­able can­di­dates to have one side of the poster each? I have ev­ery is­sue of and each and ev­ery one of them has a poster in it — ex­cept this one, and that is dis­ap­point­ing. Hav­ing their car as a poster is a big thing for the own­ers and some­thing for them to be proud of each time they look at the poster pinned up on their wall. I can only imag­ine how dis­ap­pointed th­ese guys are feel­ing, hav­ing been robbed of that op­por­tu­nity; it’s a damn shame.


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