Waking at four has its advantages, but dozing until six is just right on a Sunday. I followed my own rules and forbade myself from any work yesterday. Instead, I got up and headed out. I walked up the esplanade as the first pack of marathoners trotted through. Secretly knowing that the helicopter cameras were there making sure I got up to no mischief.
I had forgotten how great it felt to stroll underneath the hoop pines. But now the goal of the walk is Barefoot quality coffee, I think I will be making the journey a lot. Knowing my hilarious rollerblading joke, you can almost hear the crickets as i mention it, I saw a bloke and his misses rollerblading along the track. It got me to thinking that it might be a cog in my master plan to get an arse. Roller blading, who would have thunk it. The world will soon be mine.
Yearly family lunch following the Marathon commenced. I was still hot under the collar, but tried to hide it. The whole crew was there and the staff greeted us like long lost family. A family that smothered fish with butter, leaving me to eat bread. But not even famine could wreck Yearly-Marathon-Feast. Niece was in fine form; fully refusing to sleep and winning the war of defiance this time. And the beach was rolling glass.
Back at the shack, I cleaned the last of my clothes for the upcoming trip and chilled out. I tumbled around my unit in ten-year-old track-pants, sweater and slippers.
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