Nah yeah: Being able to restrain myself from smuggling a whole fucking bowl of gravy/the ooze of eternal sunshine out of the pub when my boss treated us to a platter of deep fried nibblies for the big race.

This is a pretty huge deal for me. I mean, I love gravy. Give me the choice between a lavender-scented bubble bath and a simmering tub of gravy and I’ll bomb dive into that beautiful brown goo every single time. I may even dedicate a longer post to the stuff in the coming months.

So the fact that I didn’t tip it into my empty cider glass and smuggle said cup out of the pub in my cleavage or even ask the bar staff for a straw so I could sip at that salty, vaguely-meat-flavoured goodness for the duration of the Melbourne Cup festivities is a huge personal victory for this gravy guzzler.

I would have happily shunned my coworkers and the excitement of horses running around in circles to hide in a dark corner to savour the secret joy snorting roughly half a litre of gravy.

Yeah nah: Realising I had classily waltzed up to the bar with a battered fish fillet in my hand and unconsciously used it was a pointing stick. Wasn’t. Even. Drunk.