When your heart is in summer but a pending spousal visa is body-slamming you into the depths of winter, which ironically could also be a metaphor for life, and you’ve spent the the last 3 nights awake till 3am, firstly from a helicopter tracking a drive-by-shooting suspect in a neighbouring suburb, the other by a couple of Gen Z’s sitting in a stationary car they’re too young to drive but old enough to DJ the subwoofers and the other because you were inched 2 cms off the bed by a domineering potato who said she’s the itchiest she’s ever been in her whole life so you spend the next 2 hours dabbing different flesh areas with a cold flannel. So you take yourself & your endorphin purchase that was intended for a Parisian sunset out to the local cafe but foolishly park on the corner of a busy through fair where 97% of your selfies have workman, truck drivers & rather expressive walkers in the background wondering why it’s 12 degrees with arctic winds & you’re in a bikini top 🫥