You know when you get to the stage of working so much to afford the things you want, that you no longer have time to enjoy any of them? You begin to wonder, what is the point? My wife, a woman who can spot the subtleties of my pointlessness levels, usually coincides a getaway before clinical depression kicks in. Her parents, Nita and Eric, had already planned on visiting Tasmania, so we decided to tag along. What’s that? Why would anyone want to go on a trip with his or her in-laws on purpose? Well I don’t seem to have the same problem as ninety per cent of the population. We get along just fine.
The wife had left this particular trip a little late as my level of pointlessness had scared away my sense of humour again. Sick of trying to overcome work pressures and an overwhelming flood of pessimism, my humour packed its gear and left. Last time this happened I had to go to Vanuatu to find it. I hope it catches up with my sense of monetary control. That disappeared in the middle of the Monaro engine rebuild a few months ago and I need it back.
I finished hating my job on Friday afternoon when the contract ended. We were departing Saturday, leaving minimal time to pack, or examine our travel options. A storm blew up a few hours later while we were packing. A loud cracking sound, and a crash that turned my guts to ice, heralded a large tree falling onto the roof of the house. (I didn't know it at the time but this is now known as No. 1). I went outside, into the raging storm, to survey the damage. The tree had squashed the fence on the way through and now rested comfortably on the laundry. I went back inside before my rum got too watered down. Nothing else could go wrong so why worry about it?
The storm must have spiked the power after we went to bed so the alarm didn’t go off the next morning. By the time we realised and got up, we had 15 minutes to get ready before the taxi arrived. I need at least an hour. The ensuing mad rush guaranteed a pervading feeling that something important has been forgotten would dominate my mind. Remembering the crucial item can only occur when a person no longer has the option of returning for it. I knew this rule well.
We pushed past the fallen tree, ignoring it as best we could. The taxi got us to the airport on time and the plane didn't crash. We met up with Nita and Eric at the Brisbane airport without me strangling any of the young adults having an overly good time in front of us. The kid that usually kicks the back of my seat the entire flight must have been unavailable so the airline got in a group of excitable teens to irritate me instead.
(See - Tasmanian relief - PART 2)
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