Pancakes deal with motionless body after election party
THE body in our lounge room lay motionless.
And not for the first time that morning, I wondered if I should have been more prepared for this.
I'd like to say I'm a planner. Logically, it should go with the job.
Don't reporter-types run around with multiple pens, and inflatable flak jackets in their back pocket?
It's the stereotype, sure.
But oddly, the only real-life example that springs to mind is Hunter S Thompson's thorough fastidiousness, as he prepares for his Vegas tour (with a Chevy convertible packed to the non-existent roof with 30 different illicit substances. And tequila.)
In terms of organisation levels, it was a rare high point for the industry.
No, like most journos, I prefer the last-minute, deadline-driven charge.
Much like, I suspect, what many voters of the left-winged variety had been hoping for on Saturday.
Despite the well-founded doubts of my fella, we'd planned an election party.
"Planned" is a generous term - we put it on Facebook.
And then, the day of the party, we rush-planned. That is, panicked.
Three trips to various supermarkets, department stores, and purveyors of fine liquor later, we felt more in control.
We went to vote, and the sausage sizzle had run out of bread. We figured we were among our own people.
The events of that evening - are off the record.
Suffice to say, the election was won and lost, and not too many folks at our place were noticing by the end of the night.
The sun still came up the next morning, and streamed into our lounge room. The body shifted, groaning.
Post-celebratory after the big win, a local representative of the right side of politics had passed out on our couch.
We dealt with it the only way we could - we made pancakes.
And after that, I'm tipping I'm ready for anything.