A Pint of Gold and Plenty of Music [Open]

There were too many rules about this conference room that Jett wasn't particularly keen on. No rugby balls, Aussie rules balls, soccer balls, footballs, cricket balls, beach balls, baseballs - no balls of a sporting nature, period. Apparently a house of international business had no place for goofball antics and sports themed spheres. If a man couldn't toss a small, rubber ball across a giant hall filled with international delegates, screaming "heads up" and what he'd assumed were the Americans - though poor Canada could easily have found himself in the line of fire - then where could he do that?

They had also confiscated his digerydoo, his boomerang, his briefcase full of lager - Foster's Gold and Premium Blonde for the curious soul - his pan flute and they had even tried to take his koala. He fought them off, though, with tales of alligator wrestling and bear trapping using nothing but a fish, rope and his own, bare hands. He wasn't even gonna mention the time with the stingray. They weren't happy that he had decided to come in cargo pants and a soccer jersey, either, but he wasn't going to run off just to change clothes.

But now he was sat in what he could only describe as "a boring debate about something on money" that he didn't understand, or want to understand. This discussion required beer - and a novelty sized beach ball to bounce up and down the isles. That right there was a motion that would carry - some hardcore international policies on lager and beach balls. He'd be dreaming about it, too, with his head planted firmly to the wooden desk before him, where his koala not poking him in the side over and over again. Probably should sit up soon, honestly.

Things were soon reaching him, anyway - he knew when the particularly boring man at the front announced "does the delegate of Australia have anything to add to these discussions?" Talk about a direct question - now was Jett's time to shine on the international stage; to break through the stale, mundane politics, and add some kind of breakthrough thoughts on the whole process, to sprint away from aged and dull ideas. Did he have something to add to these talks? By god, he most certainly did have something to add to these talks, something that would male him forever memorable.

Dragging his head from the desk, he looked across to who would for now be referred to as Boredullistan, his koala hopping up onto the desk, waving a little Australia flag.

"Got somethin' ta say? Mate, if ya gotta ask, ya haven't ever met Australia then, have ya? See, we're all sat here in this big ole' hall, an' nobody is noticin' that we got all these rules we don't wanna follow! No musical instrimints, no alcahol of any kind, an' most importantly, no novelty sports balls! This meetin' would be much more fun if we could bounce a beach ball around? America knows what I mean! Tell Cal'fornia Aussie said hello, gonna?"

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Alfred fidgeted in his seat, glancing at the clock for what felt like the fifth time in fifteen minutes. Why couldn't they elect to have more breaks at these meetings? What was the speaker even talking about? He was scarcely paying attention.

Contrary to popular opinion, this had nothing to do with underestimating the importance of these meetings. He just needed to move, dammit. Sitting still was a matter of difficulty for Alfred, to a greater extent than most countries present realized. Once the itch started, it began to spread.

He found ways to cope, of course. Sometimes he would bounce one leg and down under the table. Sometimes he would click his pen repeatedly. Regardless of the method, all of these actions had the same intended result in mind - a temporary relief of the 'itch' until either the meeting was dismissed or a lunch break was called. At that point, Alfred could stretch and maybe go for a walk to burn off some of that excess energy.

WORK IN PROGRESS