If I was smart, sensible and retired, I would take it easy, sit in a comfortable chair and rock myself to sleep, slowly, with the sun on my face, a book on my lap and a sock in my mouth.
Do I know I can do this? Yes. Have I done this? Yes. Why did I do this? Because I was bored, depressed or my stomach was distended, packed with more food than a Clive Palmer snack but I ate it because I hate waste. And the sock? Just a thing I have with socks.
But it won't happen again, because when I wake on an average morning the first thing I do is check for breathing, then I get up, strap my legs, and head for the beach.
It doesn't matter how sore and sorry I am, as soon as I hit the great southern ocean, all feelings wash. I swim, I roll, body surf, swim, roll, surf, float, then, when the cold has owned, me I run for the piping hot showers at Ellen Cove, Albany, as far as I know the only hot steamy showers on any beach, anywhere.
How do I guess this? Because there are two showers in the room and inevitably I am joined by another, usually an out - of - towner, and he always exclaims: "Man, these showers, I have never been on a beach before that had such hot showers."
I have heard this said in the following accents: French, German, Polish, Dutch, Canadian, Czech, and Peppermint Grove.
Nothing like getting out of a cold cold ocean and plunging under a steaming stream of public water.
If you are not sure where Albany is, here's a map:
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