People seem really angry right now. And mouthy and ranty. And I kind of get this. There is so much to be worried about. But I try each day to greet the dawn with some level of counting my blessings.

Like right now. I am counting my blessings that Mr Woog and the Woogettes are enjoying the most wonderful time in Thredbo, while I bunker down at Mum’s place getting spoilt. Last night it was a roast that I did not have to shop for or cook. Tonight I believe I heard the word chicken schnitzel was uttered. So I am delighted at the current state of play. This morning, not so much.

This morning I pulled on my Lorna Jane Pants of Power and met my sister Mrs Ryan, and her little dog Scruffy, for a morning walk. We navigated a few busy intersections before we came across the playground of our youth. The local turf farms, where we used to stage races on our horses, smack straight up the middle of the lovingly tended grasses. Oh the local turf farmers adored us and would call our Mum and Dad to let them know how much.

We walked towards an intersection, where the bitumen turned to dirt, and the scene where some 30 years ago, my horse bucked me off and I knocked myself out. As we approached, we noticed a man of advanced years, walking a tiny poodle.

The tiny poodle noticed Scruffy straight away. And began to show its interest in getting to know each other well, through a series of squeaky barks.

We bought the two poodles together, if you can call Scruffy one. He looks exactly like Hairy McClairy (You know… from Donaldson Dairy?)

The three of us entered a polite and respectful banter about the merits of poodle ownership when our new friend told us that he thought that his poodle was very intelligent.

“Yes.” I offered up, as I knew that the breed was well known for it’s brain.

It was at this time that I glanced back down at the dogs, and noticed that his miniature poodle had his face fair stuffed up the backside of a rather concerned Scruffy.

“I reckon my dog is smarter than Julia Gillard…”

My sister showed amazing poise at the comment, gathered up Scruffy and continued down the road. I stood agog, while he began a rant that was not initiated by anything apart from his own hate.

“That Tony Abbott is a good bloke. I know him personally. And Bill Shorten DID rape that girl, but she is being paid to cover it up…”

I stood there, jaw on the floor, wondering how a conversation regarding over priced dogs could result in such a delivery. I heard FRED NILE. I heard JULIA’S BANK ACCOUNT. I heard so many things that I cannot even recall them.

I backed away slowly, worried that if I moved suddenly, I would unleash a further tirade. Eventually I had to turn around and upped my pace.

I caught up with Mrs Ryan, who asked… “What just happened?” I told her that I believer that we had just met the secret brother of Alan Jones. I asked her for her phone and snapped him, as he marched up the road, surrounded by the most beautiful scenery. With darkness in his heart.

Now I sit here. Mum has just bought me in a glass of wine. For it is a Friday night and am spending it with people who have hearts of gold.

And that is surely, something to be grateful about.