Australia is a perfectly nice place but it also happens to be perfectly pricey. I spend a large amount of time worrying about money causing a slow degeneration into miserliness. I walk around shops talking to myself and prodding bags of flour. I measure apples in the fruit and veg section to make sure I get more apple mass for my dollar. I tell Australians that Australia is expensive, because people love it when you criticise their country. People also love whiny paupers, which is why I’m so popular.
As a result, thoughts and statements of the following nature are just on the horizon:
“New clothes? Are you insane? Why would I buy new clothes when there are all these abandoned curtains just lying around, dying to be made into a toga?” (I said toga as an appeasement to my masculinity.) Actually, I could always make them into a fetching outfit to charm some money out of Rhett Butler, thus saving Tara. (Sorry, masculinity.)
Or this one: “Hey guys, instead of going out for coffee today, why don’t we pour ourselves cups of hot water and pretend we’re drinking coffee instead! Let’s be children again, living in a world who’s boundaries exist only at the limits of our imagination! Please don’t leave!”
Or perhaps: “I think human beings should embrace their natural biorhythms. Shun electric light, housemates! From now on, we should all go to bed at six. If you can’t sleep, we can stay up and talk in the dark about carving flint and making underwear out of ferret skins. Please don’t leave!”
The day is coming soon. Maybe I’ll start bringing cucumber sandwiches to restaurants, who knows? It clearly isn’t healthy, and so I’ll probably take the more sensible route. Once I’m adopted as the seventh child in Brangelina’s rainbow family, I’ll start spending money again. Oh, then it’ll be all: “This is my ocelot. His name is Fabio; he wears nappies and he only eats the blue M&Ms. This is Marta, she changes Fabio’s nappies. She comes to the house every day in the chopper. Once a week she cuts my toenails. Marta, here’s a thousand dollars. Go buy Fabio a new stroller.”
Either way, you’re basically screwed. The Man keeps producing shiny things to tempt us to spend money. A typical creation in this vein is Siri, an app you control with your voice. Simon has her on his phone. She seems pretty useless, and responds to most commands with “I’m sorry. I do not understand what you want me to do.” Her name reminds me of Suri Cruise. Suri Cruise makes me sad. Poor little beggar has Tom Cruise for a father.
I stop writing now since thinking has made me tired, and I feel chilly. This toga lets in a draught.