Someone should make a voodoo doll of me. Not just any someone. A voodoo someone who wears lots of beads and who knows their occult stuff reasonably well. They could subtly pull a hair off my scalp while I waited for a self checkout to become available at Woolworths, and social engineer their way through Facebook until they were friends with one of my friends, find a photo tagged as me and use that for their wicked spell. The doll should be constructed using the finest materials - waxed hemp fibre with a high thread count, beads from Spotlight's pricey aisle - and they should burn off any loose threads with a genuine Zippo.

Then, once they had sewn the final stitch and appropriated any rituals, the doll should be taken to a tropical island somewhere and placed gently on the sand facing the ocean. And they should then be so kind to it. Particularly kind to all of its joints, saying soothing things to tendons and cartilage and patting them softly in a reassuring way. They should play upbeat music from a battery powered boom box that contains encouraging lyrics and use a small, paper fan to spread a gentle breeze across the doll's form. When night eventually falls they should erect a small bistro in a shoebox and cover it with an umbrella, seat the doll and ensure his top hat is perched correct. And do this each day until I post 'stop'.