A late, late, late lunch. On a different day even. When the restaurant is closed. And the friend you were going to meet for a meal died years ago in a boating accident. Does food even exist anymore? Dab some protein wisps under your olfactory avenues and close your eyes, remembering the simpler times, when people were people and cakes were cakes.

A journal entry you found in an abandoned boatshed, on a springtime ramble you turned into a forage. Does that sentence mean anything? I need more sleep and employees. So far I've achieved none of either. Take a page out of my book and eat it with relish. I have more books, and I have a relish guy (I live in Tasmania, you need a relish guy here).

An Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response to being pushed down a stair case.

In the words of Trent Reznor - "I hurt myself today/to see if I still feel" - and in the words of Sophie Ellis-Bextor - "Why does it feel so good?"

An itinerary with no notes; an empty scrapbook waiting hungrily for your content to spill on its high quality card-stock pages. Go on a 3-day hedonistic journey and take this as your treasured journal - as well as being great for writing, the pages are highly absorbent!

Pairs well with a tandem bike ride through an industrial estate, or a meet-cute at a methadone clinic. Throw water on your steaming face and rawdog the reality that is screaming towards you at ludicrous speed, you silent partner of a voyeur pig.

Picture a frog. Now picture it's Workplace Team Manager. Then picture that Team Manager's Dad. Then picture the God that Dad worships. That God would take one look at Andre the Green Tree Frog/Loyal Companion/Beloved Icon, and that God would say 'whoa, hey man.'

We lost one of the best of us this week. Hop freely old friend. This one is for Andre.

A long, long bruncheon with kick ons, sleepy but productive. Sign the NDA, wad yourself up for safety, and watch the sun set over the corporate retreat foothills. It’s always lunch somewhere.

A rustic and farm-to-table offering - mix your sweets, your sours and your umami into the suburban hangi oven you built out of a nearby abandoned retaining wall, stay awake for 30 hours contemplating the aromas, and then wrap it all up in that antique doily you were keeping for a special occasion.