We stand galvanised on the cusp of another Freedom Weekend.
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I'm not referring to grabbing a pitchfork in readiness for the double-dosed Greater Sydney hordes poised to swarm regional NSW anytime soon.
Sounds like they've been doing that anyhow, according to recent stats.
Nor the unquarantined masses of international tourists threatening to swamp our shores as soon as Alan Joyce can spark up the Qantas jumbos.
If they still go.
I'm talking about Ocsober and it's mildly un-noticed passing, by probably everyone except those who have participated, as of Sunday this weekend.
Having valiantly held the line thus far, I'd say it's been an interesting month of zealous hydration, concerted salads and general contemplation of the gut biota.
A stiff drink would have been handy to block out Scott Morrison and the National Party threatening "will they" or "won't they" over the last fortnight on climate change policy pre-Glasgow.
Unfortunately, net zero emission wasn't an option unless you changed channel.
Miracle of miracle, though, something was negotiated in time to be declared an achievement. The details of which we apparently don't need to know.
They're presenting it on the international stage as "the Australian way" and I wonder if it dovetails into our approach to French submarines?
I guess we'll be able to check that with the US once they give us our response.
But all good things come to an end, they say. Not necessarily with climate change, but technically Ocsober.
The key question for anyone who's made it thus far now is, well, does it?
It's not like anyone's mandated that we live a healthy and sensible life governed by informed choices about what we put into our body and the benefits, both health and beyond, that flow thereof.
But in your darkest hour, after another comfortable Ocsober night's sleep and a satisfyingly regular ablution, you start thinking maybe it's worth considering.
I guess that's the kind of Deep State brainwshing you experience during cult-ish months like this.
Totally at odds with the alcohol and gambling led recovery being touted by authorities post lockdown.
Another area of consternation as we approach liberation day is the alleged promise of weight loss if you get off the grog.
They say it takes at least six weeks before you notice anything. But apart from hair loss, nothing's registered, which has hardly alleviated the hang-xiety.
It's becoming apparent that if I want to scale back, I might have to scale up with abstinence perhaps another two weeks beyond November 1.
Clearly that's going to collide with any notion of "getting back on it".
So yeah, much to contemplate heading into Melbourne Cup on Tuesday, and what exactly constitutes being on a winner.
