My sleeping self, by switching off my alarm and then hitting the snooze button three times, inferred pretty damn clearly this morning that it's done with work. Which is nice, because its my last week. Of course, as much as I fantasise about missing the plane to work, my inner honesty stops me every time. Furthermore, I knew missing it on my last swing would leave me W I D E open to the level of sniggering my erstwhile colleagues usually reserve for the times ‘Storm the skimpy’ is in town. (An explanation for the non-Aussies: a ‘skimpy’ is a topless barmaid. Slather them in vegemite and you’d have something dinky di enough to open the next Sydney Olympics. Unfortunately for me, one of the regulars at the local pub goes by the stage name of
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