I remember Jerry Seinfeld once spoke about the male tendency to wear clothing, particularly underwear until nothing remained. I’d argue that it isn’t restricted to men, but that would be the kettle calling the urn fashionable chrome. For the last month or so I’ve been wearing what used to be known as pyjama pants. Somewhere along the line they failed to be. It started with a small rip at the top of the seam in the middle of the back elastic. Since then, and with a few spectacular sounding mis-placings of my foot, the rip was stretched all the way down to the back of my left knee. What is frightening is there was a time when I didn’t know this was happening and proceeded to wear them unaware of my indecent exposure. Since then I’ve taken to wearing underwear under my pyjama pants (no matter what Amy tries to tell you, this is <i>not</i> typical human behaviour) to protect the eyes of unexpecting lasses, so the pyjama pants serving a more superficial duty, much like a diplomatic outpost. As I noted getting out of the shower tonight, with so much cotton flapping and flailing my behind looks like a harpooned whale making one last dramatic attempt at cap-sizing the boat. I think I’ll buy some new pyjamas. 

I was running late to get to the radio station today, as usual, but stopped in at a sandwich shop to grab some lunch (the midday till 3pm slot makes lunch hard to manoeuvre). The same shop where a previous employee asked me if I’d like my schnitzel heated between his bun. Little did I know they’d had a staff change and renamed the shop to The World’s Slowest Sandwich Shop Ever.

As the huge sandwich maker crafted the two wraps for the mother and son in front of me, he seemed to obsess about every little scrap of carrot. When it was finally my turn I told him what I wanted, and he slowly walked around pondering which bread roll he might pick up. When he finally came back he picked up a knife and gently rubbed it against the side of the roll, almost as if he were trying to comfort it. As I told him which salad ingredients I wanted, he chopped them all up, and carefully positioned the roll into the right position so he could stuff in the thinly sliced beetroot. I thought about asking him to speed up, but I couldn’t work out how to do. Every wording I came up with sounded condecending, and I really didn’t want to be one of those people anyway. When eventually, just for the sake of time I told him I didn’t want any more things on my sandwich, he replied “Sure, I can do that.” I’m sure you can. Just do it quickly.

Wrapping the roll was as serious an occasion as serious as a surgeon trying to reassemble vital body organs. After all of this, he didn’t offer me salt and pepper. The real kicker was that because of his meticulous placing, the ingredients were all separated. “You enjoy that,” he said as I left. Sure.

Last night I attended the theatre group’s trivia night. After a true hassle trying to organise people to go and be on our table, the day of the trivia night we had only 3 on our table, yet we joined up a few tables and ended up with around 13 or so. Adam and Min were two of the pikers, but Adam made up for his absence by capturing a recording of a particular television personality sending me a personal message, which won’t be shared as Adam promised it wouldn’t go (much) further. I’m still waiting to see what Min will produce to repair her absence.

At the trivia night Aunty Pat and Uncle Roger said they had a lovely young lady from the United States staying with them and that we had to meet. They insisted that we share some physical characteristics. Brett obliged us with a shot, what do you think?

What’s spooky is that we have the same surname, even if her’s is a married name.

Please excuse the fact that I look like I’m recovering from a major bodily organ transplant.

It’s just frightening what turns up online, isn’t it.

I’m the set designer, Brian. This is from the Last 10 Years concert at the start of this year.

Because well-crafted structure is over-rated, here is a list of things: