Triste est omne animale post-coitum (and Boxing Day)

                               Boxing Day in Aus: warm, sunny, gentle breeze. No boxers.



Boxing Day has some congruity with post-coital dysphoria. 
After the extravaganza of overindulgence and excess, all that alcohol-fueled, out-of-character bonhomie and exuberance, resulting in all that frivolous bothering of God*, we ask ourselves "What the fuck was that all about?"

So, here we are. 
Subdued, reflective, a little remorseful, but not so much that we will modify our behaviour next week when, with champagne-enhanced bravado, we will try to dredge up some sincerity and mock-optimism when we forlornly wish the world a Happy New Year. 


* As in (vomiting noises) "Oh God!" (more vomiting noises) "Oh my fucking God" (more vomiting noises) "Oh fuck" (etc)