eat our dust

After rigorously planning a trip to Melbourne with my Swedish Wife's sister, we were aghast to discover yesterday I'd gotten the flight times wrong. Sadly, this is not unlike me. I dream of a day (as do my best friends, family, past and future lovers, workmates, anyone who ever requires anything from me at any point in time, ever) when my brain finally accepts that maintaining a diary will probably lead to more effective life management than simply looking at times, dates and appointments and repeating them once in my head.

Disaster loomed as the cost of the next available flights entered the triple digits. Regardless of how desperate I was to return to my spiritual homeland, I wasn't paying $600 for the privilege (and that would be $300 for J too, as it was my woeful planning that got us in the situation in the first place).

It took approximately 15 seconds between us to decide to hire a car and speed off into the distant horizon. We are young and free and wild and we do what we like.

After a series of adventures involving a girl mourning her father in Kaniva, fashioning ashtrays out of old donated XXXX cans in Tailem Bend (thanks TB pub), getting navigation advice from a hilariously odd yet mutually supportive double act of truck drivers, and choosing the inappropriate time of 10pm while on a lonely stretch of pitch black highway to say, "Hey J, have you seen Wolf Creek?", we finally pulled into Ballarat after an 8 hour drive and turned down the street towards our motel which was located just behind a railway crossing.

A railway crossing that quickly revealed itself to be stuck on the 'train coming' setting.

We could see the hotel right there, not 20 metres away! And there we were, 8 hours into an impromtu drive, stuck behind an impenetrable fortress of heavy bars and flashing lights...

We had to navigate Ballarat for about half an hour before we figured out how to get around it, and when we finally parked in front of the old Eastern Station Hotel, the fracking lights were still set to "Jacqueline du Pres". And wouldn't you know, our hotel room overlooked the whole thing.

Needless to say, we drank ourselves into a stupor and watched while the poor railway worker who'd been called out from his bed in the middle of a freezing night scrabbled around with knobs and switches and finally put the whole thing to bed. I did applaud, but I'm not sure he heard.

So now we're in Melbourne and I'm sitting in an internet cafe on Flinders St. It's good to be back.

Peace out (my apologies to Melbournite pals and chums I've forgotten to notify of my presence. As you can see, I've not even the foresight to notify myself of the ins and outs of my plans. please call.)