Last Friday at the office, so weary, but all set for the camping trip: esky, camping gear, clothes packed, knew where I was going. Then first thing in the morning, "A" emails me with an I-know-it's-late-notice-but invitation to a fabulous Disaster Movie themed birthday party the next night. And I said no I couldn't go I was all set for this camping trip.
Then I see on twitter that
Donna Summer died, which made me sad about my ex
and me, nostalgic I suppose, he used to play her a lot. So I got a bit teary, and as the day wore on I found I wasn't
excited about the trip, but was determined to stick with it - cos I
never know when to stick with a plan or when to give it the flick - so I
stuck with it, and Lolly Sherman said I'd feel a lightening of spirit
once I was on the Open Road, but the first half hour of the Open Road
got me down the Princes Highway as far as Rockdale, and though it got better after that it was just
driving, in the dark, for a long time...
And I got to the National Park,
and had trouble finding the entrance from the highway, no signs, just a gap amongst the shadowy trees, a dirt track disappearing into the dark...
One aborted stop-off at a flood-lit Tourist Park, where everyone was asleep; a nightmarish
walk onto the beach there in an attempt to get into the being-awayness, but it was pitchy dark, and cold, I couldn't see, I almost walked into
the surf, it was strange and weird and unfriendly; and dinner the packet of squashed-fly biscuits I'd fondly imagined having for afternoon teas over the weekend, eaten as I drove home without stopping, slapping myself to stay awake from exactly 11.11pm.