OK,
well I've been writing these things for long enough now. Time for you
guys to do the heavy lifting. Just choose your options from the brackets
to create a wonderfully textured and uplifting
story to celebrate our impending lotto win.
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It was a typical Sunday in suburbia. It was
(hungry / pissing down / slathered in politicians / lathered and in the bath). After a while I made my way to
(Bunnings / Officeworks / Masters / a generic furniture store). As I disentangled myself from my
(car / boat / bicycle / dog leash / monorail), I spied a sausage sizzle in support of
(the Templestowe Tumblers Junior Gymnastics squad/
crowd-funding the story of our branch / sending Billy the
allergic parrot to a neurosurgeon for a brain scan). Helping myself to a sausage with
(guilt / bread / onions / mustard / eco-quinoa), I spied out of the corner of my eye
(a hot-air balloon crash-landing as is "perfectly
normal" in the car park / a lion eating my innards / a display of
new products / shopping trolleys hurtling towards me). I realised at that moment that I was
(a rich source of protein / unimpressed with
Jasmine the tumbling twelve-year-old / fat and bloated / a slave to the
money then you die, yeah yeah).
Once inside the store I made my way down aisle 49 until I bumped into
(Tahlia's dad from netball / some bloke with a ladder who thought I worked there / Geoffrey Edelsten / Lady Gaga / the local MP) who was looking for
(fork handles / four candles / a nice frame to
stick a dazzling photo of Wynn the Welsh Whorned Whrino (above) / a link
to a file in Objective /a sausage / my support in the upcoming / a
Welsh worm farm (for leeks) / decolletage / a meat
hook). We had a short chat about (How the
latest translation of Anna Karenina beautifully captures the dark,
soul-destroying bleakness of a long Russian winter / the price of
sausages / the doom that is to come / why Tahlia's not
playing nicely anymore / the dangers of hot-air balloons and how
zeppelins are superior in every way / Ronnie Corbett and Prince).
Hearing the word
("bespoke" / "snug" / "cantilevered" / "precision German engineering" / "floating"), I gravitated over to an area where Kevin McCloud had been brought-in to give a talk. He was discussing how to turn a
(perfectly good paddock in West Sussex / verdant
woodland with thriving colonies of squirrels and pheasant / quaint 19th
century townhouse in Leicester / disused quarry) into
(a disused quarry / a large hole in the ground
covered with eco-polystyrene made from recycled salvaged gremlins / a
mortgagee's auction / a couple of chairs sitting in the middle of a
forest of concrete) armed only with
(an inexplicably large number of young children /
slaves, basically / a couple of planks, a rubber band, two trolleyloads
of lager and a bunch of blokes from down the local / an episode of
'MacGyver' / a fey bespectacled eco-designer called
Desmond / a second mortgage and a large overdraft facility).
Suddenly, I realised I needed to check my lotto ticket. Comparing the numbers I realised I had won
(second prize in a beauty contest / a life-changing amount of money / nothing at all). This win was
(tremendous / terrific / disappointing / sad / #OMG!!! / emoji central) as it would finally allow me to
(live as a hermit in a small disused quarry / cast
Dudley Moore as a character in "Our Department:
The Musical!" / send Jasmine the tumbling twelve-year-old and her troupe
of teenage tearaway tumblers to the Twelfth
Triennial Traralgon Tumblefest / buy a perfectly good 19th century
townhouse in Leicester / get the dog a sausage also).
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