Author: Penny Potter

Freedom. Adventure. Curiosity. Laughter. Nature.

Breaking the bed is definitely all it’s cracked up to be.

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We were at odds last night. I was chattier than a monkey at brunch and my man was more keen for sleep than a mother when the baby is howling. All I wanted was a few moments of pillow talk, those beautiful, judge-free conversations you have in the dark before rest stills the mouth and mind. But he wasn’t keen, preferring instead to roll over and actually sleep.
I took the hint. Decided it was time to compromise and let the man sleep after a hard day of toil. 
Not. 
As if a sleep-hating demon had possessed me, I began to jump up and down on the bed, higher and higher. I heard him rustle beside me and thought I was winning – surely he’d be keen for a chat once I demonstrated how much fun could be had while awake. 
Then, suddenly… Crack! 
All at once the dream faded as the ageing bed collapsed and took out my new red lamp on the way. The sheer smash was louder than the thunderstorm in the teacup that was to follow with my boyfriend’s quiet, white rage. F***, he yelled, with the passion of a stallion at dusk. And so my jumping stilled.
At once I was reminded why my mother told me not to jump on the bed, obviously the action was not kind to the bed, structurally. The other thought playing through my mind featured the futon bed that I smashed last year in a similar fashion. 
Alas, I had no time to ask when the lesson would penetrate the skull because the rage beside me was moving and I could stifle the laugh no longer. The pillow was handy but even it’s duck feather filling could not disguise my mirthful delight. I was happier than the kid that convinced their parents that bubble gum was good for dental hygiene.
To be frank, I adore naughtiness. When I travelled in Brazil I stayed with a friend’s family and the first phrase I learned was ‘muito san vergonha’, which loosely translates to very naughty – or has Google has just informed me, the phase is actually closer to very shameful. My mate’s mother could definitely see through my disgraceful bed-making attempts and I had to sit red-faced through a demonstration of how to make a bloody bed. At least I learned that awesome word and felt content that I was not behaving myself, as my mother had instructed.
Last night I had the same kooky satisfaction. I hope that I never take home a title like well-behaved!!
On the downside, however, after a night with a mattress on the floor, I think we may have mice. 
Balancing these factors, I believe it is always best to take the more interesting, laugh-worthy cause of action. So, go on, jump to it!

Why it’s better to be the fun cousin.

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It’s a fine feeling to swing a child upside down and listen to their innocent squeal as you deftly bring them back up to eye height. It also brings a sweet contraction of the heart to hold a little girl’s hand in the surf and lift her over the white wash. These sorts of child-centric activities can also lend a person an unreasonable sense of their own strength, hence increasing the appeal of children. They make you smile with their easy giggles and you begin to feel rather cool, almost God-like with their appreciation of your attention. Plus, in my case, meagre muscles are transformed into a female version of Arnie’s 1990s body. What is not to love about these little kiddies?

Well, interestingly it is getting to the stage in my life where age and a steady boyfriend mean people feel increasingly welcome to publicly speculate and almost encourage procreation. And scarily enough I am not as opposed to the idea as I was a year ago. But I would still rather volunteer for a year of wash ups rather than deliberately fall pregnant.
At the moment we are camping in an idyllic spot by the beach with a raft of cousins, uncles, aunts, family friends and about a million other children on bikes, scooters and other space-age children’s mobiles. It’s a fascinating environment.
For Ben and I, the day begins with a sleep-in or a leisurely walk to the beach. Then we’ll pack the boat up at tortoise speed and head out onto the river for a few hours fishing. We’ll play cards later, or have an arvo nap. Perhaps read a book. The decadence is palpable.
In between these lazy activities I’ll duck over to my cousins place and stir up the kids. It’s astounding to observe the world through a child’s eyes.
Yesterday I had a competition with my cousin’s curly-haired delight. I said she was as silly as a rainbow. She cleverly replied that I was as silly as a tomato.
I thought she won that round, but determined not to be outwitted by a six-year-old, I replied that she was sillier than a pod of dolphins spinning around and around in the ocean until they were so dizzy they couldn’t swim straight.
“That actually happened,” she replied, with a grave look between her curls. I had no reply for that gem of creativity so she continued. “You’re sillier than a group of frogs jumping up to the moon and back down again.”
I took that as a compliment.
But alongside the frivolity there is the darker side of parenting that is on display at all campsites at some stage. There are the children that scream blue murder when their well-meaning parents offer to take them off for a shower. Or those other cheeky devils that insist they want the toy that their sibling is playing with. At the beach the shore is lined with beady-eyed parents watching their progeny frolic in the waves, ensuring they stay between those flags. Meanwhile, I’m out the back catching waves with the sort of skill that people stop to watch, awestruck, wondering how someone can simultaneously be so confident and so uncoordinated.
As the fun cousin, I can build a quick sandcastle, jump a few waves, swing the child around like it’s an airplane and then leave the camp when the youngster is warming up to the mother of all tantrums. That’s exactly where I want to be.
There is still a fair way to go before I will trade my narcissistic lifestyle for something more nurturing and wholesome. But in the meantime I’ll stir up my delightful cousins and harbour  a generous respect for their fearless parents.
 

Wrecking other people’s Christmas gifts.

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In the days after Christmas there will always be the inevitable smashing, crashing and losing of the presents that were supposed to be cherished and last until at least the new year.

It is disappointing when it is your own remote-controlled helicopter that has flown into power lines, at the request of your own poorly-controlled thumbs. But, I am realising, it is a decidedly different affair when you send somebody else’s gift to an early grave.
This issue came to light today when my boyfriend’s Nerf gun came into my possession. I had thoughtfully gifted this weapon of mass stinging and Christmas upheaval because it spices up the ham and salad affair. Water pistols are another favourite present, especially for a sweltering day when only a good water spirt will cool my mother down.
The first issue with the blessed Nerf gun came shortly before the crumpled wrapping paper ended up in a large grey bag. There were no batteries included and who had four spare C batteries lying around – no one. So we were spared the lively sting of the new dart pistol on the day of Christ’s birth. 
On Boxing day my dad found a set of Cs in the car and the war was on.
Once the battery debacle was solved we were all free to turn ourselves into walking targets. All was going to plan. But then of course we headed down to the fishing hole and the Nerf gun barely left the car, such was the enthusiasm for wetting a line, and for the contents of the esky. 
The gun had not been broken in, until today. Back at the ranch I received a few choice darts to the face until I pulled the old I-bought-it-so-don’t-hurt-me-with-it line. The sucker put the gun down and I picked it up, snuck around with the stealth skills of an arthritic dog and shot Ben square in the knees. I continued aiming for his head and hit his elbow, foot, stomach and the other 12 darts hit the couch. By this stage I was more pleased with my gift than a priest is with a lengthy sermon and prepared to sneak up again. This is when the latest drama unfolded – I’d lost half of the bloody bullets. They’re not under the couch or lolling about on the floor. And guess who’s in trouble now. Yep, I got the old you-gave-me-the-present-and-then-lost-it line.
Now it feels like Christmas.

Drive me crazy.

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If somebody asked me about the benefits of long car trips, I would ask whether the positive gains would extend beyond reaching a destination. Last night Potter and I survived another 10-hour car trip, tempers still intact. It’s not always the case.

We live eight hours from the closest family members in a place where air fares are still at 1980s prices. So long drives are as avoidable as getting sunbburnt at the cricket. 

Yesterday’s mission began without promise. Potter lounged away with just his hangover for company, insisting he wanted to leave the next day. Compromise was not a word in my dictionary as I stormed around cleaning, packing and insisting we were going to leave imminently. 

The fun truly began once we hit the long stretches of red dirt, with just a few stray emus and some bad music to keep us company. Boots sat in the back opening his mouth wide enough to impress a dentist as he drank in the freedom of being on the road and the promise of cooler eastern temperatures. In the cab, Potter and I found ample ways to amuse ourselves. Our favourite game is a rather complicated affair called Goat. In this stimulating game the passenger and driver compete to be the first to spot a goat. They express this by yelling Goat at a reasonable volume. Bloody exciting, that game.

Often I will read to Ben while he is driving. Now, isn’t that sweet. 

On a trip to the Windorah Yabbie Races earlier this year we had an extra passenger, let’s call her Smella, and she introduced us to a game that required cognitive effort. It begins with the sentence ‘daddy’s gunna buy you a diamond ring’, then the first player must make up an ending to the sentence. For example, ‘and if that diamond  ring don’t shine, daddy’s gunna buy you a ball of twine.’ That continues on and one. It’s highly entertaining. We gave it a shot yesterday but it was interrupted by a badly-timed fart that was much funnier than the real  game. The confined space reglations were consultated about the legalities of flatulence on long trips. For the record, the rules state that if all passengers are participating then no retribution can be dished out.

And to think that this is the fun side of the car ride.

Things really head downhill when the mumbles begin. No one in the car can be bothered with enunciation so the car is filled with an increasing din of ‘pardon’, ‘huh’, ‘what’, ‘what did you say’ and then finally ‘speak f******* properly’. Usually we’ll sit in silence for about 10kms before the perpetrator of such impatience feels bad enough to sneak a hand onto the other’s knee. Instantly the spat is forgotten. There is no place for grudges with at least four hours to go.

Then there is the passenger ettiquitte, which includes advising the driver on speed limits and rogue wildlife. Last night I learned that yelling the new speed limit and smacking the upper arm is as well received as food poisoning at Christmas.

But let’s not forget the good points. One of the most glorious things about these trips is the sense of teamwork. With just 40km to go, when the moon is sitting far above the horizon and the driver’s yawns are more frequent than the roos jumping in front of the vehicle, that’s when you realise that you’re in it together and the company you had was a million times better than doing it alone. The mumbling probably wasn’t too bad.

And then the next morning, when you wake up 10 hours east of home with family to make you breakfast, it was all worth it.

Amateur hour at the fishing hole.

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The absence of salt in the water shouldn’t change too much, surely. If you can fish on the coast, you can fish in the outback, right? Casting with a rod shouldn’t be too different to an archaic hand reel. Until a few months ago these were the steadfast rules of fishing. The assumption was more wrong than a person pretending they need a wheelchair to use the disabled toilets. I might as well have walked onto a football field and pretended I could catch.

My childhood was a tangle of fishing lines, stabby hooks and fresh catch that my dad would fry up over the campfire while I trotted off to fetch my favourite part of the meal – hot chips. My dad and I spent hours in the boat. Actually that was his chance to corner me to have the sex talk. Nothing to hide behind with water lapping at every oarlock. Of course we caught our fair share of slippery creatures. I know all about holding the rod up high when you’ve hooked a bass, I’m an expert on hook knots and still believe that crashing around the boat making more noise than a mechanicanically-challenged airplane is a recipe for fish of the line. Admittedly the landing net was never my strength and plenty of beauties have clocked up a second chance at my fumbly hands.

Despite this rich history it’s a different story in the Bulloo river, the only river in Australia that doesn’t flow to the ocean and also, interestingly, the only water system out here that is free of carp. The first hiccup was the casting. My fishing companion demonstrated casting a hand reel with an ease that would have put the great Rex Hunt to shame. The line swung neatly in a double arc and plopped half way out the river. My first attempt hit the dirt behind me and was met with a healthy dose of mirth. The second slapped the water, but it was so close my jeans needed to sit in the sun for an hour to dry. After a few more lessons my cast touched the middle of the river. It was a satisfaction akin to a dinner when the guests return for thirds.

Even after these in-depth tutorials my casting is still as unpredictable as a jar of jalapenos. On Monday I took out a healthy eucalypt branch about ten feet above the river. Apparently I let go too late that time.

Then there is pulling in the bloody line. Apart from the saga of ensuring you don’t tangle the line around enthusiastic ankles – either mine or the dog’s – there is the difficulty getting the necessary pull so that the bloody fish doesn’t jump off the line and find some less dangerous prey. A few weeks ago we made a spontaneous Sunday arvo trip to a new fishing hole. On a mission to impress the new folk I met at this hole I decided to catch the biggest fish of the day. Nothing was left to lady luck with the crafty slow-pull-in technique I mastered that day. My fishing line was treated with the same respect you’d show an antique violin.

Sure enough, the fish of the day jumped on my line and with a measured excitement I asked someone to please hold my bottle of wine. It was on, more excitement than a kid with a toffee apple as that behemoth was dragged closer and closer to the shore. With one final pull I jagged that monster a few millimetres onto the sandy bank. But the crafty bugger had other ideas. He spat that hook as if it had no barbs and attempted a backflip back into his territory. He didn’t see Bernie coming. The great southwest hunter rushed into the fray, sacrificing his rum can and dry clothes. A big call when it was the last rum can and a mild winter’s afternoon. That yellow belly was a goner. Bernie rolled that fish up the bank as if he had been a rug salesman in a prior life. Of course, I still took credit for the freshwater beast and took a lesson home about getting those sneaky fish up onto the bank.

I never thought the fishing could be so different. This was confirmed a few days ago on another expedition with a fellow coasty who had her fair share of fishing expertise. I garnered a glimmer of understanding of how frustrated my boyfriend must get at my feeble attempts at outback fishing. We ran through how to hold the reel and the slick casting action. My mate stood on the bank with her purple hand reel and declared, “This is going to be a cracker. Just you wait.” Her yabbie was spinning at rollercoaster speeds as she deftly aimed towards the expanse of murky water. It let out an almighty smack as it crashed into the shore at her feet. Ironically the yabbie was a cracker – it cracked into pieces and spilled across the bank like a bag of marbles. It evoked the sort of laughter that’s usually reserved for watching people slip over on their own litter. A brilliant moment in my fishing life.

Regardless of these nuances I reckon spending time on a riverbank or in a boat with a line in the water is one of the most tranquil ways to spend an afternoon. That is, unless you’ve got rogue yabbies, amateur casting techniques and multiple hook-ups. Even then it’s a brilliant excuse to sit around a fire and have a beer with your mates. All in the name of catching a bloody slimy animal that’s difficult to fillet.

When yabbies become a hobby.

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It seems brutal at times. Completely counterintuitive for hunting and killing to be part of any courtship routine. Actually, it fits quite well. Perhaps it’s the hunter, gatherer instinct.

Recently my county beau and I have stepped this up a little and I’m not talking about when we went shooting feral pigs on a Sunday – that was a one-off.

It’s the crayfish. They consume my thoughts and have even clawed their way into my dreams.

Yesterday we checked our traps three times, all before 5pm, and the haul was smaller each time. Perhaps we are checking too often, or we need to move the traps. These are in depth discussions with an intensity akin to a bikram yoga workout. My third waking thought this morning was about the traps. How many yabbies would have fallen prey to our cunning trap last night? But grand final fever has taken over and trap checking will have to wait. Apparently there are more important things than yabbies on such a historic day. It’d be like watching a documentary instead of the Olympics. Ridiculous.

But the yabbie fervour will continue. There are grand plans afoot to create a habitat of yabbies and breed them. Of course the poor critters will be sold as bait but they will have an enriched life. No cage yabbies out here.

For me, the excitement is in the catching. Pulling in a trap to see how many have been fooled by the liver bait is more exciting than a double-yolk egg. I have even learned how to hold the scary looking beasts without their gnarly claws finding a way around my fingers. That was a proud moment.

An interesting fact about yabbies for you – they are vegetarians but you can catch them with meat because they try to get it out of their space. Also they are vicious. One big sucker took his mate’s claw off the other day while they were in the bag together. Brutal.

It’s been a learning curve for me. I’d never been yabbying before and not all of the moments have been a source of pride. The first trip out was an interesting affair.

I assured my yabbying companion the end of the rope was secure after he had baited the trap.

“Are you sure,” he checked. “Yep.” Surely I could hold onto a piece of bloody wire.

He cast the yabbie pot into the brown murky water and the thin strip of red electrical cable, our only tenuous tie to the trap, slipped straight out of my slippery hand.

“You said you had it!”

“Yep,” I replied. And we watched the pot sink into the muddy water in murky silence.

He enlisted a stick for help, plucking at the water in a lucky dig that was never going to produce more than a wet stick. I rolled up my cargo pants – the only sort of pants you can wear on such an expedition – and began my journey into the middle of the pond with serious trepidation. It was bloody freezing and the clay more slippery than a freshly mopped bathroom floor but that yabbie trap came back out and I hung onto the wire the next time.

Now, these shenanigans are just part one of the hunting tale. Once we decide to attach the crayfish to a fishing hook things really get out of hand. That’s another tale for another time. I’ve got to go and check the crayfish pots.

 

Footie fever for the uninitiated

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For most of my life football has stood alongside who-can-stay-quiet-the-longest as a game I would never be interested in. Swimming with saltwater crocodiles held more appeal than a game where grown men run at each other in pursuit of a funny-shaped ball. Granted, hand-eye coordination has never been a strong point for me, so perhaps jealousy was an issue. Nonetheless I loathed footie. Not to be picky I hated all codes with equal enthusiasm. Until the move out west.

I was strolling through the grocery store today picking up kilos of bacon, eggs and sausages for tomorrow’s pre-game brunch when it hit me, yet again, how much my kill-joy attitude to sport has morphed.

In an attempt to avoid volunteer canteen work I purchased a rather expensive camera and these days I take photos of the games so the lads can marvel at how fit they look in short shorts. I don’t even get paid for it anymore!

Yesterday I helped string up a makeshift orange fence for Saturday’s grand final. I couldn’t think of a less useful way to spend an afternoon but I was happier than a dog in a sewage bog to attach those cable ties. The local newsagency has run out of black and white crepe paper a few times already this week. Football has replaced the weather as the number-one standby conversation topic. Surprisingly it’s not overwhelming or annoying.

It’s hard not to love the community that comes with the sport.

A few weeks ago we were called to Wog’s house for a post-footie fry up. Wog had gone away for the weekend but that didn’t stop half the footie team and their wags using his outdoor facilities. He has a better outdoor setting, apparently. (Please note Wog is a self-imposed nickname and any other politically-correct names are not tolerated.)

The coach was elbows deep in chops and bacon but wouldn’t allow any picking. The boys rehashed the big hits from the day before and the girls talked the talk as if they’d been kicking shins on the field. It was a feel-good moment, especially for someone so new to the town.

This weekend is the corker. We have a home grand final and the shenanigans that come with it. It’s hard to find a spot in town that doesn’t have balloons or crepe paper adorning their shop front, lawn, car, head, whatever. Magpie fever has swooped into town and I doubt it will be gone anytime before Tuesday.

Traditionally I have adopted an I-hate-footie stance at these sorts of events and my ignorance of appropriate grand-final etiquette has never been called into question. But this year I will be embracing the spirit with more enthusiasm than a dog with a full bladder near a lamp post. But I still have questions. For example, how early does the after-party start on Sunday morning? Will Saturday be an all-nighter or is the bigger celebration at the presentation night? And are the boys going to be so out of order that it’d better to stay home and sort out the linen cupboard? What about Monday – is that an honorary public holiday?

And of course, what happens if we lose… Oh it’s too hard to even contemplate that one. Suddenly I have respect for the way South Americans cry when they lose at soccer. I’m not saying I’ll well-up at the footie but I understand what it’s like to care about a game enough to invest emotion in it.

I reckon I’m ready. Spinach has been picked from the garden so we have treats to eat at the game, the house is clean enough to be trashed, enough meat has been purchased to feed a footie team and the camera is charged. So here we go – my first ever grand final weekend.

Farting rules.

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Imagine a cosy Sunday morning. It’s raining and cold enough so the doona needs to be just below your chin. Your bedfellow looks delicious and is still snoring, softly of course, not in that obtrusive phlegm-gurgling fashion.

It’s a warm-on-the-inside moment. An idyllic early-romance landmark. Except for the slight rumbling in your belly. A tightening just below your ribs. It’s the morning fart. It wants to share in the stunning sunrise ambience, too.

But, take note, the fart and the mood are mutually exclusive phenomena. Let that baby rip and the snores will fade away to a silence akin to, well really there is no silence like the brilliant knowing nothingness that comes after one has let the essence of poo escape into the doona. Impossible to take that one back.

I assume this dilemma is universal. Do we fart or not? And if we do when is it appropriate and when will it make you look like a dog that has just returned from cleaning itself in the sewer?

Perhaps even those without supreme fluffing skills borne of a country upbringing with two older brothers and rather windy parents, including a father who still proudly separates his cheeks and does a mini squat whenever he needs to pass wind, maybe even those less-cultured folk have this issue. When do you let a new lover know that you have a dark side? Should you tell someone you’ve begun to care about that your old roommates never bothered with an alarm clock because the early morning tummy rumbles next door were so loud they never worried about whether they would make it to work or not?

It’s a tough one.

Recently a few of my best mates tied the knot in a hilltop church with a mesmerising stained glass window. It was a moving ceremony that tied their 14-year courtship. Miraculously in the preceding years the pair had never – and I still struggle to believe this – passed wind in front of the other. Perhaps they both, coincidentally, missed that gene. If that’s the case I am just ripe with jealousy. The bride reckons the sound of gas passing through the anus kills the romance.

Well, when put like that I’d probably prefer to watch the sunset and sip champagne too.

But there is another side to this occasionally smelly conundrum.

A friend of mine says she rarely lets rip in front of her husband simply because he shows her that courtesy. He has awesome sphincter, apparently. Impressive.

I do too. At high school I blackmailed my maths teacher into handing me a class award for ‘holding in a fart’. He was obviously so scared of the ensuing pungent wrath and I clearly coveted the $5 canteen voucher enough to deem it worth the discomfort. Of course when my class award went to the next level and was drawn out at the weekly all-school assembly the deputy principal declined to read out my good deed to the whole school. Foolish. There were a lot of grotty teenagers who could have learnt from my noble example.

Because it can be bloody uncomfortable to keep the wind in. Especially after a serious night on the lentils. Or any sort of alcoholic bender. Actually it’s very difficult to determine what can unleash a tornado of cheese cutting and what will leave you feeling thin and smelling of lavender.

In previous relationships I have gone months without letting my beau hear even a whisper of my farting prowess. Looking back it seems I was probably never comfortable with them. I should have known that holding myself in severe gassy discomfort was perhaps not the key to happiness. That’s just like assuming doona stealing in winter is an endearing quality.

There is a fine line to tread when introducing farting to relationships. I’m nervous about cracking the cherry on this one, so I leave it to the man.

Ben certainly did not miss this opportunity.

I was so relieved when the car filled with a suspicious smell as we stood idle in a traffic jam. I should have seen the relationship-changing moment coming. He had been complaining of a stomach ache.

I pondered When would be the right time to respond? Obviously the aforementioned Sunday morning scene would be inappropriate. For the record, if you’re struggling to contain yourself in this situation the go to the bloody toilet. Farts in the loo don’t even count as farts.

So, steer away from the romantic moments. Perhaps try a crowded room. I suggest going for a bang, something really explosive. Start as you intend to continue and don’t be a bloody woose with a pathetic tinny shadow of a pop-off.

Make a statement.

Don’t poo your pants, though. I’d save that particular get-to-know-you game for an overnight bus trip in a developing country.

And finally, own it. Don’t back down, just laugh it off and remember: it’s just contaminated air. It’s not like you had to spew in the middle of the Sunday morning romance.

An idle Fanny raises eyebrows.

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The neighbourhood watch was on high alert in Charleville over the weekend. A banged-up white 1990 Holden apollo had been loitering outside healthy ageing since Thursday.

Conspiracy theories were rampant.

Perhaps a body was tied up in the boot. The car’s NSW registration pointed the amateur sleuths at healthy ageing towards theft. The handbag on the seat and general mess showed it was a probably lady’s care. What had happened to her? Nasty things, definitely.

Annie Liston and the ladies at the council pooled their concern, nominating Annie to take the matter in hand. The friendly lads in blue couldn’t do anything about the car on Friday but in the face of fresh alarm on Monday, for the suspicious vehicle was still rudely idle on Annie’s patch, the police took action.

The owners were called – my parent’s in Tamworth. But they didn’t receive the alarming message until later that night.

After matching the surnames I received a few phone calls about my errant wheels. I missed the policeman’s calls but a message came through from the boyfriend in Quilpie, “The cops are chasing you to move the Fanny.”

The car was named Fanny in high school in an overwhelmingly successful attempt to annoy my mother. Not surprisingly it stuck.

Not long after that message my flatmate rang. The police had called on me at home about my car.

I began to panic as two friendly coppers strolled into the Watchman office.

But once the enquiries about my wellbeing were satisfied the men left to deliver the news to Annie. She’d been worried all weekend, she laughed.

“I see Fanny has gone. Good girl,” she texted me on Tuesday morning.

Camping was never supposed to be about comfort.

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We had tried camping once before. That Saturday night under the stars in January ended up as the sort of disaster you spin as a good dining-out yarn long before the swag is rolled. The chops were cooked on ashes, ants infiltrated our swag, flies woke us before the sun and we ended up wedged between two industrial toolboxes.

So we slept and ate poorly, drank far too much and broke a fishing rod. And in case you are wondering the we is my one-time jackaroo boyfriend and myself.

There was something about the stars that night that stopped our enthusiasm for camping from lagging like a helium balloon in the sun.

We set out again a few months later. This time lists were made. The new hotplate made it into the ute and no fishing rods were smashed in the wood-gathering section of the evening. It was all pretty blissful for a while, until we arrived at the camp spot. The flies were thinker than chilled vegemite.

I don’t want to sound like a woose about the flies. Ben told me they’d be good for my patience. I screamed at them and shut myself in the car. A dose of Aeroguard to the face shut me up, briefly.

We sat companionably at our lines, waiting, waiting, waiting for a yellow belly to jump on the end. I began to think the fishing was a conspiracy. Perhaps the flies had concocted the elaborate ruse with the fish to get us to sit still on the side of the bank so they could maul our faces.

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I pride myself on camping cred.

My first camp was in a Bedford van when I was three-months old. Occasionally I imagine my mother birthing me in a tent. Certainly my uncle loves to tell me I was conceived in that van. What I mean is, camping and I go together like cheese and tomato on scummy bread that is only good for toasting.

There is something inherently romantic about removing yourself from civilisation to battle against the harsh elements with the help of every modern gadget imaginable. It can be better than sorbet at the Eiffel Tower.

But on a riverbank near Quilpie last week there was no gadget for the bloody flies. I found myself dreaming longingly of a bee-keeper’s gauze hat. Ice cream and a trip to Paris didn’t seem so horrid.

Of course the flies only lasted until the ocre sunset coloured the horizon across the river. My rugged boyfriend rubbed a few sticks together and sparked a blaze for our snags to be burnt on.

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I sipped on a lukewarm ale in appreciation. Merlot was sloshed into a plastic green glasses and all thoughts of flies left our minds. It was bliss. And then an almost-full moon began peeking through the gum trees behind the fire. At that stage I would have probably turned my nose up at a trip to France.

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The token dog on the camping expedition, Boots, was wandering in and out of the creek, liberated from the shackles of small-town living. Mud caked higher and higher up the legs he would shake all over us later on.

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Amongst the wining and dining there was a latent fear at the back of my mind, similar to the fear of needing to pee on long bus trips with grumpy drivers. What about the mozzies?Image

We thought the wind would keep them away and bunkered down in a swag, minus the mozzie net, to watch the stars and forget about the fish-less fishing lines in the water.

That move was probably as smart as putting a box of tissues in the washing machine with your best black dress.

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By the time the mozzies woke us the moon was high above. My skin felt like bubble wrap and the notorious whine of malevolent insects became ubiquitous.

The mozzie net was installed but he hogged it and my flesh became the feasting zone. There was no bringing that net back to my side. Then Boots came on over, desperate for company now that slapping noises were coming from the swag. With one easy movement he spat creek sludge all over the useless mozzie net.

“If you pack all the gear up I’ll drive you home,” Ben said with a note of exasperation at my tossing, turning, complaining, slapping and generally whiney disposition.

“If you pack up all the gear I’ll drive you home,” I replied with less maturity than a three-year-old in a beauty contest.

So we ended up watching the moon in the rear view mirror and sleeping soundly with the air conditioner blowing any nasty insects away. Packing up fishing lines in the middle of the night is no-ones idea of fun.

I began to think our camping trips were doomed. My dreams of exploring Australia with a swag and a hot plate seemed as likely as my old car passing rego this year.

Then, divine intervention.

Easter stepped in and I was posted to cover the Eromanga rodeo. There aren’t many places to stay out there and my reporting duties extended beyond sunset so the swag was rolled out again. It’s widely understood that it never rains in Eromanga. It’s apparently the furthest town from the sea in Australia. But we had about 30mm on Easter Saturday. Typical.

Miraculously we clipped up the swag, avoided the left-hand side on the bottom that was waterlogged and had our first good sleep under canvas. Perhaps the most blissful part was seeing the poor sodden suckers who hadn’t zipped up their canvas the morning after. They have so much to learn.