During the last twelve years with my beloved Michael, I have definitely experienced changes in my personality. I used to be hemmed in by rigid routines when my children were young and I felt hindered by a rather unsatisfactory marriage. In fact, I now regard my 'then self' as dead boring, hopelessly disciplined and incapable of flexibility, being unable to adapt to the unexpected and certainly never appreciating absurdities.
Take some of my famous disasters (and almost catastrophes) since I met the love of my life. Falling over whilst dragging back a dead tree for our stupendous fire. Pulling the spout off the water container (fortunately, Michael was able to rescue that situation very rapidly). Melting my thongs on the edge of a most agreeable fire. Tripping over every mudhole, creek, brook, soak, dam and ending up wet and muddy. Getting barbed wire stuck in my thigh - that was actually Michael's doing. Being the recipient of Doctor Michael and the First Aid Kit on numerous occasions. Accidentally, whilst stone-cold sober, catching my foot on my chair and ending up, left hand first, in our fire at Big Bell.
That was not fun, initially. However, we couldn't move camp in the darkness, so I stoically stuck my hand in a bucket of water, drank lots of vino, took some Panadol and surprising slept some of the night. The following morning, I placed my injured hand in a leather glove, refusing to leave until I'd had a bit of a squizz around the abandoned town.
Then we journeyed into Cue to make an appointment with the nurse. This was not a pretty sight. All four fingers, thumb and palm had second degree burns. The nurse sensibly asked us where we were headed. Any sensible person would have responded that we would head home. Barleese to that! We were meeting friend Zelda in Laverton a few days hence. Our heroine didn't even raise an eyebrow. She responded by encasing my hand in a five-day infection controlled foil, mesh and bandage, organised me some excellent pain relief and sent us on our way.
My love of language has definitely aided me at times such as these. "Bollocks" is an incredibly useful word to express displeasure from mild to extreme. "Rooted" describes an item or situation as being somewhat terminal. Similar to "stuffed". "Excellent" or "Gold" may be employed in either genuine joy or as a sarcastic remark of a situation going horribly wrong. "Bloody" is another adjective in the same mold. "Dodgy" can illustrate any person, item or entity that may be slightly less than ideal or "on the nose".
Over the last few days, Michael and I have employed these and other colourful phrases in relation to the seemingly cursed caravan water heater tank. The damned device has been removed, pondered over, taken apart, photographed, discussed and yesterday, replaced back in its position on Digger's side without resolution. The useless piece of shit (there is an appropriate noun) is utterly rooted, due to poor installation that caused failure of the rivets and the subsequent leak.
Hence, we have no water available in the caravan. We are still heading north with the Cossack Art Awards, my second Pfizer jab and the magnificence of Marble Bar all waiting for us. Yesterday afternoon, we engaged the little grey cells to formulate plans. The loo will work at night by adding a stream of water once one has finished necessary ablutions. We have water in all the caravan parks we are attending. If we free camp, bucket baths are eminently reasonable and the bush is often a far less smelly environment to perform necessary acts than inside a cramped toilet. Plus, we purchased an extra water container, so we now have forty litres of water in excess to all our drinking water.
Today is our last day in Onslow. Yesterday, we attended the marvellous Staircase Street Festival before the evening's additional attraction - Staircase to the Moon - the rising of the full moon over tidal flats and shallow water. An absolutely not-to-be-missed phenomena of the Northwest.
However, some of our attention, prior to sunset, was hijacked by a hapless chap attempting to stand up on a paddle board, available from the resort. We watched, our hearts in our mouths, as he chose to gingerly cross the jagged rocks to the water, bare foot and with no shirt. For some inexplicable reason, he didn't wish to enter the water from the sand directly in front of the resort. The first time he fell into the sea, the level was only knee deep. We cringed in symbiotic discomfort. He persevered, eventually moving into water that was deeper. He kept trying to remain upright on this aquatic death trap. By the time he gave up, most of the festival's attendees were watching him, including the local ambos. I felt equally sorry for his lady companion on the beach, as the sandflies were viscous due to the lack of wind. I hope he doesn't suffer infections from the inevitable scrapes he afflicted on himself...
The late morning is warm and quite still. The sandflies were on the beach when I took the dogs out. Fortunately, I had covered myself in insect repellent which kept most of the tiny bastards at bay. Soon, I shall tackle the dishes at the fabulous campers' kitchen area and then attack some hand washing in the laundry, necessity being the mother of invention.
Stay tuned...
Onslow - Sunday 25 July 2021.
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