Oh Punch, sweet nectar of the Gods. How delightful was your mix of feijoa vodka, rum and bourbon, mixed to perfection with juices of fruits. How delightful was I whilst imbibing this delectable liquid. The social butterfly, I regaled my colleagues with risqué tales, dancing and singing to soothe the soul. Ah, my sublime duet with a colleague (with additional effects by our good friend Speedmedic) had many having to leave the room, overcome with emotion. And my balletic solo was the toast of many. How fortunate was my manager to have such wonderful tribute bestowed upon him by myself and my fellow imbibers of this nectar at his farewell do.
But why now does this Punch mock me? How can something so delectable cause such sorrow the following morning? Why, when I did my groceries yesterday, did I not foresee my great need to have bacon, eggs and hash browns readily available to ease my suffering? And who used up all the Panadol?
At least my throbbing ankle has answered one question I didn’t realise I needed to know …why ballet is not performed in high heels.
Right, if anyone wants me I’ll be doing my dying swan act on the couch – no pirouettes involved.
PS – How are you feeling Speedy?
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Originally Posted by Drew
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