Many decades ago I was famous for a delicacy known as "Brad Meal". It was a dinner I'd discovered while camping as a preteen, requiring the rehydration of peas and corn in boiling water, adding instant noodles to the same water, then mixing in Deb dehydrated mashed potato until the entire pot congealed into a single entity of stodgy, starchy, salty mush that tasted brilliant with a bit of BBQ sauce thrown in.
"We'll upgrade you to something more comfortable," the car-wrangler told me. This was the first sign something was wrong.
In 2018, Anzac Day is a tricky one, everyone caught between respecting the fallen, and wishing for a world where we'd never killed each other in the first place.
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