One of the fun things about my job is wandering around suburbs I wouldn’t usually visit. Today I went and did some hanging out in Kirribilli and my GOD, the people there live sweet lives.
Leafy streets and heritage-looking terraces done up beautifully, a fecking school with a harbour view. Kirribilli residents look as though they never fart, poop or pull on a cardigan they’ve had since year eight covered in moth holes. It took all my will power not to put some dog poop in a bag, set it alight and put it on someone’s door step. That’s right, try and scrape that turd from your Sofia Coppola for Louis Vuitton heel.
Yesterday I was in Roseville and had similar feelings of pure wealth-envy. Then I saw this piece of fun:
The world is awesome.
It’s really immature and narky of me but how the hell do I tell people to quit saying “Bless you!” after I sneeze. This seems like a small problem, and really it would be if I didn’t sneeze twice every five minutes. No, for real. I’m allergic to everything. My pillow, our blankets, the carpet, Joel’s manfume, Joel’s deodorant, my deodorant, the upholstery on bus seats, the Daily Telegraph, autumn leaves, the grey jumper I’m wearing today, my red bracelets, my office, the office fridge, the photocopier ink, my keyboard at work, the ABC AM program.
It sounds like I’m exaggerating, I know. But quit saying bless you. For one thing, I don’t need to be blessed. I am already – I have awesome Mississippi mud cake in my bag. For another thing, aren’t you bothering Jeebus who has to bless me every five minutes when he’d rather be watching The Sopranos?