Over the sonorous ANZAC weekend I am given cause to reflect what it brings me as an Australian.
It’s a frankfurt with melty cheese and bacon in pastry that my colleague informs me hikes cancer risk by 6700%. Bless you VIP Pies! Such an act of culinary evil was never so close to velvet on the tongue.
It’s dinner at a Turkish restaurant with fresh crispy Pide, special receipe hommus and Persian kebab sticks that feel like you are eating the meat equivalent of ice cream.
It’s a humbling stroll down ANZAC parade.
It’s memories of wearing late Uncle Stan’s medals as a teenager at 6 in the morning.
It’s the right to talk bullsh*t and argue semantics and pettiness all day long while some guy gets shot trying to watch the back of some Japanese guy, whom 60 years ago would have stuck him good with a bayonet. That our country has become so good is evident in that the only issues are petty ones and our maligned enemy becomes our firm friend.
Lest We Forget.