Instead...

I was going to write about how the humidity of this stormy evening turned my milk to cheese. I was going to write about my obsession with Uncle Les' pock-marked neck. I was going to write about the traumatic effect of the under-cooked egg which my Aunty Joyce served up to me when I was a younger being. I was going to write about the time the old lady got her leg trapped in the automatic door of the bus, and how I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of her hopping along as the bus pulled away. I was going to write about how a couple of curious children are going to pull George Bush's legs off and roast his stumps in the sun, "because it's just a phase they're going through, bless 'em." I was going to write about...

But in the end I chose to do this instead...