A Practical Guide
So the other day was shitty. One of those days on which it feels like everybody hates your work. One of those days with which you think you’re coping but then it creeps up on footsteps velvet-soft and sneaking that night as you hit the sheets: that hyperactive pulse, that knot of heat in your gut. Ah shit, you think, seeing it like a forest amongst trees, today was kinda shitty.
But let me back up. It should’ve been a good day.
I’d been flown down to Sydney that morning by the saintly couple...
Is anyone interested in this? I ask because I know I would be. I’m not a detail-oriented guy but I am a lover of details. The little-known inner workings of things. The cogs and gears of this strange, strange world.
Anyway, I’m a spoilt rich kid. Not really a kid anymore, admittedly, but the phrase does roll off the tongue a little smoother than “spoilt rich man”. That’s just peculiar.
My Mum and Dad (all the glory must go to Mum and Dad) worked their arses off for most of my childhood building a wicked-good earthmoving business, then sold up in 2008 for a truly empirical sum you can read about here.