No-Brisbrainer
After the last four days or so in sunny Brisbane, I've come to the following theory. Pigeons and various migratory birds are born with the innate instinct for homing, a miraculous credit to their aptly-named birdbrains. How did they come into such a commendable inheritance, that they can find their way home from over thousands of miles away the very first time they attempt the flight south? Given the measure of homing instinct as H, here is the theory:
There is a finite amount of H in the world. QED.
It follows: the existence of aforementioned pigeons and migratory birds has created so high a concentration of H that it sucks away H from other sources, viz., me, who thus managed to clock up SEVEN HOURS of (literally) LOST TIME while trying to navigate my way around (read: around, and around, and around, and around, and around, and around) Brisbane. You know things aren't good when the sun's low on the horizon and all you've seen for the last 100 KILOMETERS is BUSHFOREST, and the signs pointing to Brisbane are on the OTHER SIDE OF THE ROAD. Worse yet, when none of the signs have any distances indicated on them, mocking you in the way only street signs can: "You jackass, you're too far away for us to bother telling you just how far away you are". That, dear readers, is when you know things aren't good.
The theory also makes an alternative equally possible - that is to say, my prodigious natural incompetence at directions creates such a colossal black hole of H that it actually generates the levels of H necessary to reassert H equilibrium, and endow said birds with the observed phenomenal homing instincts. But let's not go there.
Brisbane was cool, in the way that really hot places are. More later, maybe.