Memorable things about visiting Numurkah this weekend:
The young white-trash couple who fought and argued for the entire three hour bus trip home, who were thankfully sitting two seats ahead of me, but were still close enough for me to hear the hissed "bitch", "lying mole", "bastard" and similar phrases flying back and forth between them. When they got off the bus at Southern Cross Station they erupted into a full-on screaming match, oblivious to onlookers, before storming off swearing in opposite directions.
Discovering that the invitation to 'come smoke a spliff down by the lake' from the bloke I'd been chatting with in the pub for an hour on Friday night meant just that, and was not a coded sexual offer (much to my disappointment, and his shock).
Speaking of pubs, Numurkah is a three-pub town. The top pub, the Telegraph, is the domain of the local footy team (cricket in the off-season) - boisterous yobs, predominantly. The middle pub is where the old men drink, and the bottom pub, the Shamrock, is where everyone else goes. It's also where I ended up on Friday night, when the afore-mentioned not-a-pass offer was made.
Other memorable things: bare paddocks grazed to dirt by hungry sheep, the bare soil bleached the colour of bone; mum's delight in showing me off to her book club friends; the brightness of the stars above a country town; woken by a large flock of galahs circling and squawking overhead this morning; uninterupted reading time with no distractions save for mum asking if I wanted another drink.
Quality times. Now it's back to the real world for another week. Where did I put that book I'm supposed to be reviewing?
2 comments:
I turst he still shared his spliff with you!
Oh yes, no fear of that, evol kween. I was deprived of a quick root but not a choof...
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