Speaking of Britain, I've long been convinced that there should be a vast castle somewhere on the sweeping, pebbled British coastline in my bloodline that I should be able to inherit. I actually feel completely and utterly jipped that this is not the case.
The last time I was in Britain, the local Immigration officials were all like, "you need to go back to the country that's written on your passport", and I was all like, "w'ever". I live in Australia, so I guess they won that Battle of Heathrow. This all happened a fairly long time ago, mind you, when I was younger, stupider and rocking hideous peroxide blonde locks. Perhaps the latter provides a vague explanation for my illegal immigrant behaviour.
For the record, I do not condone, endorse or recommend debating with immigration officials ever, but I suppose most rational thinking people already know that. I imagine even people who live in Queanbeyan know this is a very bad idea. I know that's a stretch, but sometimes they surprise you.
Speaking of towns that are located near a 'metropolis' but pretend their economy can stand on their own two caravan parked feet, I have recently been dismayed - DISMAYED! - on two occasions to find that the local Queanbeyan Coles supermarket has somehow deemed it appropriate and necessary to pose one of their humanly named delivery vehicles next to the trashy caravan park (their trucks are called Xena, Kevin, William and so forth).
My hysteria is due to the fact that the aforementioned truck is called Elizabeth. Can you even imagine my horror? And what would my namesake Her Majesty think? On behalf of the Palace, one is rather unamused and feeling slightly slandered.
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