After a virtual flood of footy in the last month or so, what's a person to do this weekend? There's nil, nada, nowt.
Domestic duty excuses are at an all-time low, so trimming, weeding, painting, all those disgraceful ‘ing’ words come to the forefront prompted by guilt and the other half.
I guess you could queue around the block up north for a haircut. Well, you could pretend you're an All Black coach sitting on a stationary bike for 24 hours, gazing thoughtfully out the window in the forlorn hope you might find the answer to those rushing defences.
If you're ‘The Crusher’, you might be able to find a big enough Band-Aid to stop the bleeding and you, too, could spend the weekend wondering where it all went wrong, clearly failing to survive your review.
Spare a thought for you to if you're a referee, an AR and a TMO. Those whistles, flags and monitors can all go into the shop for a much needed servicing.
You could, I guess, read the rule book again in the hope that you can find another 27 reasons to slow the game down. Good news is we won't be bitching and moaning about you this Monday morning coming.
Then, of course, once those hideous, onerous tasks have been performed, you may be able to confine yourself to the old lazy boy, watch the Blackcaps chasing leather around that beautiful smog and pollution-free green park in sunny Kanpur.
Now, if there ever was a time to wear a mask in the field, that is it. One job, Kane, you had just one job – call correctly, you couldn't do it.
Or possibly you could have even selected a fresh Wagner over a slightly rundown Southee.
Maybe a touch of trackside may be on the agenda as well, taking the last couple from Paeroa or one or two from Caulfield or Rosehill.
But if you're taking the advice of our good friend Sam, you may have yielded all the rights to the remote, in which case you will probably be sitting on the couch holding hands watching Yellowstone or a replay of Adele. Easier on the eyes, some would say.