Hans sat on the freeway for what felt like forever in the midday traffic. It took an hour and a half to get back from these stupid bloody meetings. God knew why they couldn’t have Zoom meetings instead, although, apparently, a rather clever chap by the name of Zed Van Burton (who maintained his websites) had assured him that having in-person meetings were far more unlikely to be hacked into than Zoom ones, not that Hans knew that was a thing although, he supposed, if it were possible, someone had likely done it already.

Zed, being rather clever (if Hans remembered correctly) had assured him it had indeed been possible and if Hans perhaps remembered the story about the priests meeting where someone had left on (or maybe even added) those little extra wonderful bits to the online service that time (Hans remembered that story very clearly) then Zed may have accidentally not at all have known someone who might have had nothing to do with it.

Sometimes, Hans’ web designer spoke in rather roundabout ways about certain things, and Hans quite enjoyed it. Not that he told anyone that, because that would be “betraying the trust” or something equally ridiculous, yet important.

It had been around that time Zed had kicked him, not in the least softly, under the table.

Hans shot back to the present, remembered he was driving and felt rather pleased with himself he hadn’t done what Bart had done that time a couple of years back, and instead had kept his hands on the steering wheel.

He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, admired his own chin, made sure his eyebrows were neatly trimmed, and winked at himself because, when one was as amazingly “adorable” (he tried not to cringe at that one) as he was when he wasn’t working, one just had to remind oneself of how utterly amazing one happened to be.

He did this regularly. It worked for him.

‘Where was I,’ he said to the radio, which happened to be playing loud and awesome music with lots of guitar and headbanging.

The radio kept doing its own thing and didn’t reply.

Hans wondered if the line of traffic he was currently in, would actually reach over fifty kph, or whether he’d still be doing twenty k’s in another hour’s time.

He decided to change the radio station.

‘At the third stroke it will be…’

… Something that no longer existed. Bloody ABC.

Maybe he should take selfies for social media and… Get picked up by the traffic cop who’d just turned up in a patrol car nnext to him.

Okay then, social media “I’m bored” shots were understandably out of the question, which was lucky because he was thirty two, not ten, and really didn’t need all that wonderful feedback from randoms at all, ever.

Not even a, okay, just a little bit.

But not now.

Definitely not now. The cop’s partner, who was the one not driving, had poked her head past her partner’s shoulder and was currently giving him a little wave, despite the frown on the driver’s face.

‘Hellooooo,’ Hans crooned, giving her a mouthful of shining white teeth to admire.

The constable in the driver’s seat did not look impressed. He glanced at Hans then looked back at the road pointedly, before glancing at him again.

Hans sighed. God, even the police were boring.

Who knew? Apparently, everyone did but him… and the sweet little police officer who was giving him a very pretty smile from the passenger seat of … He slammed on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting the car in front of him, the patrol car sailed past him without the driver giving him the finger at all, and Hans came to a complete halt.

‘God I hate Monday,’ he muttered.

He didn’t get home ’til two p.m.

There were actually many reasons why Hans didn’t like Mondays but this afternoon’s reason was all the noise coming from the top of the hill.

He’d already said goodbye to Jake’s tree early that morning, but decided, perhaps when the man in the whatever-it-was, which was extremely loud, had knocked off and gone home, he’d see what else had been destroyed in the name of progress.

Hans laughed at himself. He’d never been too interested in the past about why things like construction sites were done a certain way, but in the last two years (possibly around the time he’d found out he occasionally turned into a large, brown and slightly terrifying dog), he had felt more connected to nature (for what were fairly obvious reasons, not all of them being the fact it was Monday).

He adjusted the flea collar under his shirt as he sat on his long back verandah and sipped on an espresso.

‘Wankers,’ he said to no one in particular, and tried not to lift a leg and scratch himself under the chin. Growling, he stood, opened the french doors, and grumbled his way inside.

He’d pulled off his paisley tie earlier, thrown it over the back of the couch, stripped himself of the ridiculous (yet extremely cool) brown leather shoes which he’d left halfway down the hall and now, simply because he didn’t want to sit out the back and watch trees being knocked over, decided to pick it up and toss it all into the very long walk-through robe thing, and check himself out in the floor to ceiling mirror he’d purchased for himself on Boxing Day.

‘You’re a hotty and don’t forget it,’ he said to himself, very seriously, and didn’t burst into flames once — then wondered why he thought that might be a thing. After all, bursting into flames was not conducive to getting a new girlfriend, was it? No, not at all. ‘I like you,’ he added, refusing to back down from the mantra he’d uttered at his reflection every day for the past two years.

His reflection did not reply, and Hans felt rather pleased by that.

He wondered which restaurant he’d go to tonight. The local places were all friendly and simple, and he was pretty sure none of them had whipped garlic butter.

Hans pulled out his phone, opened the Maps ap, shut his eyes, and began twirling a finger over the screen. he refused to think about the heated discussion he’d had with bloody Nora earlier that day on why restaurants should be closed on Mondays. These were different kinds of restaurants to his, and that’s all there was to it.

Tonight, he’d be dining at “Carbaretta’s”, who apparently did seafood. He hoped it wasn’t too oily.