Launceston and back today. Throw in a baby screaming all evening, a stroppy, whining toddler and we're talkin' good times! Maybe the marathon yelling session will mean an equally long sleep.
One can dream, can't I?
So there I was, arm hooked up to the machine, watching my plasma swirl away into a bag while the morning news dribbled across the screen like a bad fever dream. And what were they showing? A "riot" in Melbourne, allegedly. The sort of riot where the real thugs wear body armour, carry pepper spray and look like they just walked off the set of RoboCop. The people they were beating? A ragtag crew of teenagers and old hippies—probably fresh out of a drum circle, still smelling of patchouli. But sure, let's call it a riot. Now, here's where it really gets good. I mentioned this spectacle to a few people later, thinking maybe they'd share my outrage or, at the very least, give a damn. But no. What did I get instead? A smirk, a chuckle, and—oh, the pièce de résistance—"You should really just let it go." Let it go? Yeah, let me uncork a nice, overpriced cup of coffee, sit back with my legs crossed, and soak in the latest reality TV trash. Why bother caring when ...
Comments
Cheer up! This too shall pass.
Ilse, I am drawn to the bushes again now that the green is back out.
USelaine, Jen is always talking “more babies”. My philosophy is that you never have more children than you do spare rooms. We’ll have to move before we get another one.
Rebeckah, one of the few long extracts that I can remember!
Tania, how does the little [big] bloke go in the lungs department?