Packing can take any amount of
time: depends on locating connecting cables for the laptop, private and work
mobiles, tablet, camera and bluetooth ear-piece. Last minute charging? Better
get that organised, and don't forget to retrieve the charging phone from the
only vacant power point behind the toaster.
I visit Dan and Joyce to make
sure Joyce has her cat-feeding instructions. As it's the first time, I invite her
in and show her the fridge, the blue-topped plastic container of kangaroo
mince, the garden bed I've constructed in the shower recess, hand over the
keys.
Clothes? How many socks, tee
shirts, pairs of shorts? Will it rain, blow, hail? Jacket, jumper, jodhpurs?
Assemble the ensemble on the dining-room table and complete the 3D jigsaw that
will allow those last odd shapes—the bone china mug—to fit somewhere.
Oh shit, is that the time. I rustle
up the dog tucker and bundle the JRT in the back of the car. It's 14 kilometres
to my good woman's place. As I open the hatch the dog knows he's not coming
home today, looks forlorn, digs in the heels. I rouse him out, rustle him round
the back.
No time to spare. I hug my good
woman and drive away. The pastie I put in the oven before dog delivery is red
hot. I force-feed myself, finish packing with a cup of tea. I bundle the new
cat out the back door, rinse the teacup, tote my bags to the front door. As
soon as I close it I remember two things, tea bags and a tiny bedside torch.
I lug the works up the
driveway. The bus stop is in front of next door. The bus rolls up on time,
drops me at the station. The train goes the long way round the loop at this
time of day. Then it’s the tram to Collingwood, deposit stuff in the office,
grab a taxi to the airport.
Rock on.
No comments:
Post a Comment