My house is flooded.
Flooded with my tears for poverty-stricken Barnaby Joyce.
I’m using cups and buckets and saucepans and cereal bowls and vases in an effort to keep the water level down.
But my tears pour relentlessly — like the rain that hits the picturesque village of Mawsynram, in India’s hidden east — the wettest place on planet earth.
As Barnaby consumes his flat white in an Armidale cafe and fantasises about his life as a destitute ukulele musician busking for coins I sit here in my downtown northern apartment in Melbourne, writing more columns and dreaming of the day when I will make $211,000 a year.
Blimey, just think. I’d be able to afford a health checkup, a new pair of heels — maybe even a holiday.
But there’s no more time for daydreaming. I’ve got to stop the flood that’s engulfing my home.
As I write this, Barnaby is finishing his flat white and is about to return home to his house without heat.
Let’s hold a thought for Mr Joyce in his indisputable time of need.