The man at the corner store says: are you working today? I've not prompted him but it's the perfect question and I'm able to say: "No! I'm on holidays this week. I'm just reading the paper." The reality is that I'm unable to open the paper. The headline on the cover screams "Make evacuation plans" relating to rising sea levels. Subconscious panic sets in.
Not working allows time to ponder just where the brown spider who used to reside in the far corner of my room has gone. I suspect the answer is into my wardrobe. I'm also prone to making a litany of appointments to deal with a litany of self-suspected illnesses. Perhaps that's why I'm destined for the majority of my life to working at high pace. No time to ponder means no time to self diagnose.
It's a week. This week.
Last week I was terrified and at unease at the prospect of being stuck on the moon, also at the prospect of my twenty year school reunion. We discover the answer to rising sea-levels and it means, in order that Kylie Lambert's backyard at Collaroy is saved, that some person is dispatched to The Moon as the administrator of spurious alternative forms of energy. Forever. Not that they're meant to discover that. They're a clone.
And then, the school reunion. Terrifying. From what I've observed on Facebook.
I have a list for this 10 days off. The list is divided in to A and B priorities. I am 38 years old. A and B priorities are surely a luxury.
Buy Cigarellos and smoke them with Noonie is a (B) priority where as Choose new Glasses is an (A) priority. You get the drift.
We arrive in Melbourne. We catch a bus from the airport to the city, then we walk to the train platform and catch the train to the appointed suburb. After that we walk to the street, except the street is in the wrong suburb and we've carried our bags there, for more than two kilometres. When we arrive, and realise we're wrong, we're waiting out the front, leaning on the red brick wall and a man in the dirtiest jumper that Noonie has ever seen asks us what we're doing. He pretends he's looking in his letterbox but we know he's only there to find out what we're doing. He has few teeth.
Not working allows time to ponder just where the brown spider who used to reside in the far corner of my room has gone. I suspect the answer is into my wardrobe. I'm also prone to making a litany of appointments to deal with a litany of self-suspected illnesses. Perhaps that's why I'm destined for the majority of my life to working at high pace. No time to ponder means no time to self diagnose.
It's a week. This week.
Last week I was terrified and at unease at the prospect of being stuck on the moon, also at the prospect of my twenty year school reunion. We discover the answer to rising sea-levels and it means, in order that Kylie Lambert's backyard at Collaroy is saved, that some person is dispatched to The Moon as the administrator of spurious alternative forms of energy. Forever. Not that they're meant to discover that. They're a clone.
And then, the school reunion. Terrifying. From what I've observed on Facebook.
I have a list for this 10 days off. The list is divided in to A and B priorities. I am 38 years old. A and B priorities are surely a luxury.
Buy Cigarellos and smoke them with Noonie is a (B) priority where as Choose new Glasses is an (A) priority. You get the drift.
We arrive in Melbourne. We catch a bus from the airport to the city, then we walk to the train platform and catch the train to the appointed suburb. After that we walk to the street, except the street is in the wrong suburb and we've carried our bags there, for more than two kilometres. When we arrive, and realise we're wrong, we're waiting out the front, leaning on the red brick wall and a man in the dirtiest jumper that Noonie has ever seen asks us what we're doing. He pretends he's looking in his letterbox but we know he's only there to find out what we're doing. He has few teeth.
posted by noonie at 11:59 PM
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