Originally published by The Clifton Courier, July 2, 2018

I can’t back up like a used to.

As a younger lass, when my dresses had cut-outs and my soul was still untarnished by the woes of the world, I had boundless energy.

I would go out one night, sleep for a few hours, go for a run and be ready to do it all again. And again. And again. I had the kind of slow-release stamina to go and go and go. If there was a specific type of Milo marketed to hot messes, I’d have been their spokeswoman.

But now, I find myself needing a bit more time to bounce back after a big night. My favourite way to cut loose, as the kids once would have said, is on a Friday night so I have the rest of the weekend to recover. I mean, I will endure the hordes of wanky men in wanky suits going out for after-work drinks with their wanky mates just so I don’t feel too sick on Sunday to make my lunches for the week.

And so, even though it was the weekend coinciding with the end of financial year (or EOFY, if you’re looking to hashtag it) which would have meant even more corporate wankers than usual, I enthusiastically hit the town on Friday.

As such, I spent my Saturday night at home in bed.

And hey, I was happy to be there. I was tired. I had spent far too much on wine the night before. And I’d just put on a set crisp, clean sheets for heaven’s sake.

It was a great place to be.

And since I was treating myself to an indulgent night of solitude, scented candles and sloth, I decided to interview myself. Because even though I hang shit on self-obsessed suit-wearers, I also suffer from an inflated ego. One of my most cherished hobbies is pretending I’m a celebrity being interviewed for a magazine, whose life is so interesting that inane questions elicit compelling and entertaining answers.

I picture my photo on the last page of a glossy women’s mag with references to my Instagram account (@danniellemaguire) and insetted photos of my favourite dining spot (a patch of grass with Super Rooster chippies), beauty treatment (steaming my face over a freshly-boiled kettle) and book (a shameless plug of my latest release: How to Successfully Ruin Everything through the Power of Over-thinking).

I phrased this set of questions as a “tell us about the last…”

Thing you ate: I would like to say, “a whole pizza – vegetarian on a wholemeal base, with chicken”. But that would be a lie. That was half an hour ago.

The truth is even more telling about my current state of affairs.

The last things I actually ate were the random crumbs I found in my bedspread just now – which I assumed were pizza remnants. But the truth is that I don’t really know what they were from.

So, to cut a long story short, the last thing I ate was mystery crumbs.

Thing you threw away: two Brussels sprouts that had turned an infected toenail shade of yellow and were fluffy with mould.

Person you called: Mum. She has brown hair, wears glasses and loves Midsomer Murders. Just like me.

Mistake you made: putting my handbag on the dance floor of a club that exclusively plays the kinds of songs you’d have tried to choreograph a dance to with your friends in Year 7. The idea was for it to be safe from bag-stealers but not impede my sweet moves by being slung on my shoulder.

It worked. Shapes were cut. My bag was unstolen.

But this morning I realised it my bag was covered in film of filth. It looked like someone used it to clean their shower. It’s now probably infected with an exotic venereal disease yet to be formally identified by the medical profession.

Text you sent: asking my brother in law if he’d rather give up garlic bread or gravy.

Personally, I’d give up garlic bread. Don’t get me wrong, garlic bread is great and I don’t ever want to live without it. But the thought of a gravy-less roast is too devastating to even begin to comprehend.

Thing you bought: a bag of ice to put in the esky we’re using to sustain our milk’s drinkability after the fridge decided it no longer felt like keeping our food cool. It’s not like the fridge has stopped working – it keeps making the right noises which suggests it’s still running. But apparently it’s no longer in the mood for cooling. It just couldn’t be arsed.

And so my housemates and I have been storing our dairy products in an esky, which we keep by the fridge. It’s like we’re camping, without any of the novelty of sleeping outside.