So, it's your birthday.. The sun is shining, birds are having sex with the bees (as I understand it, anyway), and for one shimmering day the world seems to effectively revolve around you, and cater personally to your happiness and fulfillment. Then your alarm goes off, and you realize that instead of floating aimlessly down a river, straw between your teeth, in something akin to a Tom Sawyer escapade, you have to work.. All day. And not just any work.. Your duty is to explain to people that unfortunately we already have 23 copies of that particular Jimmy Barnes album, so at this stage probably don't need to purchase another. What's that? No, we keep Eminem under E. Before you have a chance to locate the source of the odour that's been searing your nostril hairs for the past 10 minutes, a shrill, pre-pubescent voice attempting to sound deep and masculine rings out from across the store.. "Yous don't got 50 Cent!"

You guessed it, it's Dandenong.* And although these comments wouldn't be out of place on a street corner in the same area, I am in fact in a record store.

Now, I'm used to the blank expressions I receive when attempting to use words with more than three syllables, and I've definitely become accustomed to the alcoholic freedom that the local constabulary seem to condone.. But for some reason, today it all just seems a tad inconsiderate. I'm not asking for verbal coherance or even a forced, toothless smile.. I'd settle for basic bodily hygene. I suppose I shouldn't complain too much though.. I did find a deflated balloon stuffed in amongst our rap CDs.

Unfortunately the day is about to draw to a close.. Which is a shame, because I had big plans for that balloon. With some gaffa tape, a texta and some kind of mexican hat I could've had my own personal birthday Wilson! Young Tom would've been proud..

* If the behaviour described in this post seems somewhat foreign to you, I suggest you acquaint yourself with the rules.