CLANCY OVERELL | Editor | CONTACT
Suburban mortgage broker Jax Bailey (42) has had a real fucken shit of a month.
On top of being thrown under the bus by the back-pedalling banking sector after the findings of the Royal Commission were released a couple weeks back, Jax is also dealing with the fact that his three speaking-age sons have been rocked by nits and chicken pox in the same week.
However, he knows he doesn’t have it that bad. Considering the missus is somehow able to work from home with his little shit kids running around for all but 5 hours of the day. Jax relly has no reason to complain on paper.
But, like everyone else in his industry, Jax needs a couple hours at the pub this arvo. Just to take the edge off and chase that fuzzy feeling he gets by racing another couple jugs against the clock.
With the wiffy at home ready to get stuck into a casserole and some new soft-porn TV series that she thinks he likes, Jax knows he’ll be falling asleep on the couch within 45 minutes of his kids going down.
That’s why, on this delightful Friday arvo, he’s riding his colleague’s tradie husband for a couple mid-tier-brand cigarettes.
With the afternoon growing grey and roughly 25 minutes to get home before his wife begins to think he’s taking the piss, Jax slips another lung lollie out of Brayden’s packet and heads for the door.
While standing on the footpath alone with a slight sway, he waits until he’s a couple drags in before he treats himself to an Uber home.
Hopefully the driver has some mints.
