I am done with Tony Abbott like a crusty steak dinner you buy at that mouldy restaurant on the edge of the highway which no one really wants to stop at, but you're so hungry that you have to, because your kids are whining in the back, and the wife's irate, and you have to get back to work in the morning, because you couldn't take any more leave since Don left, and you know how he was, so kind, but in his absence leaving some asshole new boss in his place who really does you no good, and who won't give you leave, even though you didn't take any holidays in the past two years, but he says something like "That's Don's problem," even though Don's problem is really cancer, which is why he retired, you suppose, though maybe it was because his mother got sick, too, and you're left to wonder then if it's his own sickness or someone else's that compelled him to leave, and whether or not he was a rare and truly selfless person, and you're thinking all this while you cut through that charred excuse for a steak, wondering if your whole life really did amount to just this, and whether your entire personal history was merely constructed as an elaborate tonal metaphor for the feeling evoked in millions by our failure of a Prime Minister.