Flying from Hobart to Canberra, to Adelaide to LAX. Crashing in the hotel with mates. Many beers, jet lag – let’s jag.

Run down, but the back of the work is broken. So how about feel it. Ride, rest, relax.

I ride past a colourful house, and some metal rusted figures. Too quick to pass us by. No time to take a snap. Oh well, so much time. I suppose I’ll commit it to memory.

Care for the Eastern Sierra.

Radical inclusion.

I’m sitting in Chieflys – supposing the word ‘chief’ is a reference the many old Prime Ministers that came before them. Not sure about the rest. I’m sat down.

Table for…

One.

One, ok this way please.

It all starts with a continental breakfast, perhaps it’s complimentary. Perhaps not. I get a coffee and a pineapple juice. Thinking of the exploitation required to get this piping hot cup of stimulation into the unbranded matte black cup. The pineapple juice is a treat, it makes me think of swingers. Keys in the bowl, everyone. I sip at the tall tumbler and the sugar hits. My bleary eyes give way to a sharp delight. Both hands full with vessels of liquid. One hot and bitter, one cold and sweet. I return my table for one. The continental breakfast has arrived, same as yesterday. A miniature croissant, warm in the middle, crusty on the outside. A tiny yoghurt in a glass tub – with coulis and honey. There is also a minute bowl of mixed fruit, chopped into roughly bite-sized chunks. Pineapple(again) and varied kinds of melon. There’s a Jam “BEERENBERG” – perhaps the exact same as the day before. I don’t usually add condiments to my croissants. I didn’t yesterday, I won’t today. But I smile to think that this cafe only has one tiny tub of Jam. Handed to the Prime Minister for his microissants each morning and tactfully declined. From early Edmund Barton to Lyons, Page, Menzies, the missing Holt and much beloved Hawke, Keating and even little Johnny turned it down to continue it’s sweet preserved life. I try the lid, it’s secure. By god, I’m right. Although the packet looks half empty. I’m aware that packaging is usually surrounds the goods by more than half, but perhaps in this case one of the more greedy politicians had a taste and then arranged for a new lid? I wouldn’t put it past on of the more recent chiefs – SCANDAL. I’ll pass on the temptation of Jam for now. Pay it forward. I’m unknowing as to whether or not Albo has been in recently. I guess I could pocket the Jam and try to deliver it to him. He’d likely be confused, perhaps even annoyed – knowing that he’d have to return the Jam to Chieflys. They’d check the contents, any less than half and he’d be strung up. The media would have a field day. I can imagine the front page. PM takes the jam out of everyone’s donut. My second breakfast arrives. The “Prime Monister’s Breakfast”. Eggs “my way”, bacon, potato rösti, one pathetic slice of tomato. How can the eggs be my way? I thought the PM would have a set way. The jam and I sit in silent confession. The coffee goes cold. The pineapple juice returns to room temperature. I worry about the health impacts of too much red meat. Put it all away. And my mind slips into gear for the day ahead. Salt muscles. Pepper digestion. Sweet, savoury, balance, contentment. I leave the Jam, for the next chief to consider. To be tempted by. Until tomorrow, at least.

[2:44 pm] We use words we know to describe things we don’t.

We might well be living in a simulation. A world designed by another. We might well be playing The Sims, in a simulation, designing things that are not our own. I am sympathetic. It’s a bit awkward. We will be ok. But give me some sugar first.

The most disgusting thing. I sat down, with a large colourful mug of hot chocolate. I’d put honey and sugar in, to make it sweeter than usual. I was cold. Cold and tired. I though that the sugar might keep me awake, while the milk might give me a stomach ache. My feet were freezing. Perhaps she shirtless day in the garden had caught up with me. Or maybe it was something to do with the painfully large serve of kale I’d eaten. It smelled of marijuana somewhat, as I chopped it up and threw it into the pot with oil and onion earlier. I threw a blanket over my knees, and forced myself to relax. The pain in my chest had moved to my head, a gentle throbbing. A feeling of anticipation, cold feet and a wonderful book to read, if only I had the drive. I sat back, read a page and then went to sip the ho-cho. To my surprise, dismay and momentary disgust I wiped the skin off the top of the steaming milky beverage. A dark layer skin, phlegm-like and sour came away and stuck to my chin. The grossness of it all struck me in such a way – I worried that my only respite would be bed. I resolved to warm my hands and never become a cannibal. Sickened and slightly unsure if I’d be ok in the short term.

What kind of boss are you? The big boss? A little boss? Some kind of middle boss? And how about your feet. Do you wear shoes? I hope so. And what about the ends – yes I’m talking about your toes. Because as we all know, they tell us all we know. If they’re not, perhaps we’ll trod, but goodness me a lightning rod should someone step on those.

Mrs Masters pulled out the top drawer as far as it would go and then some. It came off the sliders, bumped over the internal stops and came crashing to the floor. Banging loudly and spilling office supplies everywhere, the stringy black and grey bun could be seen by the other teachers bobbing up and down as she picked up pens and rulers and paper clips fussily. In the surprise and fuss that followed, Mrs Masters entirely forgot that she was looking for the red letter opener.

Carol sang in front of them mirror each morning as she brushed and plaited her hair. It was only weeks since her and Mark had split up. The wounded feeling still throbbed in her heart and made it difficult to enjoy simple things like eating or catching up with friends. An old colleague from Wisconsin had reached out to her, after they’d seen her in the supermarket a few days earlier. They hadn’t recognised, and pulled over in night time traffic, almost into a ditch, to send her a message. Carol wore her dressing gown and sighed.

London is full of short stories walking around hand in hand.

Upon reflection, I should have arranged and paid for the car to be serviced in June immediately after my road trip. If I’d lent you the car in better condition, it would have been less of a burden. I left the maintenance and upkeep for you – all the boring and expensive parts of owning a car – these should not have been your responsibility, and I was not clear in writing what needed to be done. As it stands, I received the car in poorly condition – perhaps only a little worse than the state in which I left it with you. Had it been serviced again (instead of for the first time) in November, these current circumstances may have been avoided. Stranded in Deloraine, with a car that overheated to the point of critical failure. I have only myself to blame for leaving it in your care, whilst needing attention. I have learned a valuable lesson today.

While many of these ‘wins’ are operational in nature, these should be seen as a testament to my attitude and ability to collaborate; and not viewed as limitation of skills or attributes.  While I have worked diligently and coordinated with various departments and divisions, planning and executing a variety of tasks simultaneously, I feel that my skills and expertise should be put to use and to greater effect.