old dogs, new tricks and a brand new lust for roughing it
I’m a definite kind of person.
I like black and white. Grey is shifty and clever, granted, but if I like something or someone. I like them. If I don’t, I have good reason.
So I guess I could blame the heat and the sunburn and the fact that I’m broke, unemployed and as of yet still haven’t a job where writing short stories will pay the rent. But I needed to get out of town. Smell different air. That perfect mix of forest and sea. The Great Ocean Road was calling. I was only introduced to it in my early twenties, as I didn’t grow up in the kind of family that went on holidays. We just moved house instead. Everything packed up. Friends. Toys. Clothes. Sometimes it was all left behind. I can’t remember every house. Or every school for that matter. But I do remember the last house I lived with my Mother. I would have been in grade four or five and it was the first time that I went camping.
It was one of those experiences that was so sad I told it for laughs. When stories get like that, you just have to laugh. But people always saw through. Makes me wonder how many comedians are depressed. Probably a lot. I eventually wrote a piece about it, because I was getting nagged by outdoorsy friends desperate too get me all wild and free out there.
But I guess you can either carry it around like a trophy or just get over it. So I did it. And it was incredible. Granted we stayed at one of those amazing Big4 caravan parks. Not only were there amenities and BBQs, but ping-pong. Hello, camping. Waking up to a hot summers morning and swimming in the wild surf made me glad I’m broke and unemployed. Sitting up late, talking with my boyfriend more than we’d talked in months while watching the stars. Smoking a joint and getting the campfire horror fear on the way to the toilet block with a torch.
The road rushing beneath us as we drove home, the wind getting in everywhere, messing up hair while I sang along loudly with David Bowie. It reminded me of however certain I get about something, not to get too certain, you know. Some things are not definite.
But I’m definitely converted.