(Written in February 2009)
So the other day, a friend of mine relates the following story: She, a stunning blonde lass with a figure that makes me want to curl up under the covers eating cheesecake and sobbing, “I give up, I give up!” until I die of a burst stomach and the paramedics have to take off the roof of my house and winch my body out with a crane like those Texas people on A Current Affair, is at the tram station in Flinders Street. It’s a hot day and she’s appropriately attired in a summery dress. She asks one of the helpful public transport employees about the destination of the next tram. His response is to stare at her cleavage. And stare. And stare. And stare.
