On Sunday night I had to go to the house of Pat and Ed to admire Ed's DIY renovations. Two things wrong with this:
(1) - I'm being set up to feel I should emulate Ed.
(2) - The visit involved meeting other people and nothing good can ever come of that.
Even worse, after we arrived, it turned out that a couple of strangers were invited too! Erk! The obligation to talk to people I've never seen and will never see again, about stuff I don't care about. What a waste of time!
But in fact, once the renovations were out of the way, the two new people turned out to be delightful, and they weren't deifheids at all. Yet they were Australians. How can that be?
I discovered that she's a flying doctor, and he walks his dog in the same woods as I do. For the first time in memory, I was reluctant to leave at the end. I was drinking beer with alcohol in it - I wonder if that made a difference.
Then on Monday morning I woke before the alarm, so I had 20 minutes to spend on the focussed breathing. Twenty minutes later, I hadn't managed to concentrate on a single breath. Too excited about having a whole day off, in beautiful weather.
Albert? Is that still you? I've been told beer with alcohol in it is a bit of a social lubricant, but what would I know? However, if you drink too much, you might say something you'll regret. But if you drink even more than too much you won't remember a bloody thing about whatever anybody said, and that's probably for the best. Except for the unsightly bruises of uncertain origin. Hope this helps. Hotboy
ReplyDeleteAlbert? Half the sheilas you've never met before seem to be flying doctors. I bet she had a pet roo called Skippy as well! Hotboy
ReplyDeletehotters, I think you're saying that, if you drink enough, you go right around the scale and it's as if it never happened. Apart from the sore heid.
ReplyDeleteI suppose if you live in Australia, one way to escape is become a flying doctor, in the vain hope of landing somewhere else. But what I really need is a fly doctor.