In a sign that I've possibly forgotten how to socialise, I used my trip to vote last weekend as a chance to mix things up.
When I woke on Saturday, the pounding rain on the roof suggested it was going to be a schlep to the local primary school to participate in democracy.
To be honest, I've lost faith in my regular polling booth. The past few visits were a lacklustre affair, mainly because there was neither a sausage sizzle nor cake stall.
I couldn't stomach a half-hearted democracy run this year. If I was going to line up in the rain to vote, there'd better be a mystery-meat sausage with burnt onions and a generous stripe of sauce packaged in a slice of Wonder White at the end of it.
A bonus, wonky home-made lamington would be the cat's pyjamas.
But I wasn't confident.
Are a few traditional baked treats (at least 90 per cent sugar) presented on a paper plate with Cling Wrap too much to ask? How about some of those tooth-dislodging toffees sprinkled with hundreds and thousands?
I wasn't bored enough to Google the current food handling/health restrictions on cake stalls, but I'm guessing they have forced many a community fund-raising group to fold up the card table and vinyl tablecloths for good. It's a shame.
In another sign that I'm possibly using caffeine as a crutch, I checked online for polling stations that were close to a known purveyor of fine coffee.
I chose a little booth. It was buzzing, but had no sizzle. I swallowed my disappointment and did my best to make my mark with the Ikea-style pencil. Done.
I grabbed a coffee but, after all my hard work, I was famished.
Then, I had a lightbulb moment. I needed a lightbulb. I also needed a sausage sandwich. My heart was set on it.
There was only one place for it: Bunnings. It would not strictly be a democracy sausage, but it would be cooked and assembled by a member of a community group wearing an apron, disposable gloves and a smile.
Close enough.
Like Scott Morrison, who I suspect had booked a room in Tokyo with a karaoke machine months ago, I was over-confident.
I arrived just in time to see the snags and drinks being packed into the esky.
"No sizzle in the drizzle," I grizzled.
"What a flaming cheek."
My indignation was fuelled not by entitlement, but hunger. I was hangry.
I'm thinking that the Bunnings sausage slingers had spent a good part of the morning serving a dwindling crowd in the cold while hoping their tent didn't collapse under the weight of water.
With a grumbly tummy and attitude, I bolted towards the doors.
I had nothing. Not a sausage.
"What's happening to this country? A change has got to come," I lamented as I headed towards the lights.
At least the democracy sausage hunt got me out of the house. I have no idea what I'm going to do this weekend.
I might try out my new anorak.
I hope it rains.
