It's miserable days like this that get me thinking of The Plan.
I speak of none other but the plan I once had to work 18 months on the East coast of the US, another six on the West coast and then head over to the Land Downunder for an extended sojurn. This plan survived contact with the devastatingly beautiful and alluring Mrs Stevie-to-be, not yet addicted to coffee and not prone to irrational rages as a result, for about ten seconds. I was like putty in her hands.
"You feel like putty in my hands" she used to say. "For God's sake concentrate or we'll be here all night".
Every now and then, when the wind is ripping the roof shingles off Chateaû Stevie, the basement has flooded and the furnace won't light, I imagine myself kicking back on Bonsai Beach, a six-pack of Fosters on the barbie, a lit dijeridoo held casually between my lips and a hat with corks-on-strings perched at a jaunty angle on my head as I watch the young women play boomerang frisbee in their string bikinis. Of course, this daydream often ends badly with me imagining Mrs Stevie arriving in theater after a marathon session in Starbux, out for blood and packing matching pearl-handled platypuses, but one can't have everything.
I could murder a Caramelo Koala right now
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