Mr Sun gave us a fiery day today.

Today I managed to vote and get my licence renewed (complete with wry smile for the photo—hopefully I don’t look constipated), all in a little over half an hour, including travel time. It pays these days to not do things at lunchtime.

I went on an ironing expedition last night, it felt like I was ironing for hours.

The rolls on my belly are starting to gain a more permanent feel to them. They taunt me and snigger beneath my shirt. They call out for me to get rid of them, loud in the confidence that I never will. My perky friends have no advice.

I lose an eye and gain a shadow. I can see so far but not through risk. That’s the weakness, my Superman’s lead box. Don’t give away my secrets to the undeserving cretins. Perhaps they’ll earn their place as my horsemen, but it’s entirely more likely they’ll first eat horse manure. (Horseshit for you civilised mortals.)

My filthy socks are like that fish that just flops around but doesn’t get anywhere...or the word that means that.

Fair weather friend, it’s lovely to have the confidence of a Turkish earthquake. Only the tent is your downfall. It’s a bit of a tent flap season at the moment, and there’s so much chocolate around I feel sick. I see the end to my eating problem by not, but it’s easier to eat than run.

Now we have to find somewhere to have the anniversary dinner, somewhere nice perhaps, but not in an entrapment sort of way. With a nice little voucher it will ease some of the money food burden on my poor thin wallet.

Got a shopping list for things to collect. I’m the collector, I’m the ejector, I got a bullet-proof plate in my head from a head-butt wall-consistency incident. Bring back the harbour sound for a dollar a shot. Ping of the sounding board, boom, hum, drone of a well-placed foghorn.

I let the news invade the lounge room. Next week a day will have gone by. Time slowing would be nice, I’m tired and my eyes are furry. Needles and pin eyelids, lock up and snap shut, punch my bum cheeks and rub a burning candle.

I see important people on TV in a wax state sublimation, with word paralysis of making up makeup. They have shoe polish mascara lips. I’m not a player in world politics, but I do know a wank when I see it. Indonesia and the mighty United States of Slickdickia—they’ll be the death of us all.

I wonder what it looks like in my stomach on the inside and if I cut it open will any bad things fall out? Cutting open the stomach doesn’t hurt because there are no nerves in that region of the body. Punch yourself in the guts to prove it.

Where’s the juice man? Where’s the juice man? I’m the juice man. I’ve got the juice man.