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We’re chattin’, and I’m thinkin’ *Boyhood* again—“It’s always right now,” y’know? This moment, her laugh, the cig smoke curlin’—it’s real, raw, fuckin’ alive. But then—bam!—some wanker in a beat-up Jag rolls up, yellin’ at her. Ex-pimp or some shit. I’m pissed, mate—nobody fucks with my night. I step in, all cool, “Oi, mate, piss off or I’ll rearrange ya.” He bolts, tires screechin’. She’s laughin’, says, “You’re mad, you are!” Happy as a pig in shit, me—saved the day, Bond-style.

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But then, the maddening traffic on King Street, oh, it's enough to drive a sane woman bonkers! Like, come on, people, where’s your sense of urgency or calm? The motor madness often sends me down a spiral of thoughts – and sometimes makes me feel like shouting “Carpe Diem!” in true Boris Johnson fashion. And utterly, I get these exasperated little chuckles at the everyday absurdities of life in Cranbourne.

Cranbourne greyhound racing to return after $4 million State boost