Rolling In to See The Stones

Youngest audience member
(and my responsible dinner)

Due to unforseen circumstances, it was over a year since we purchased tickets to The Rolling Stones before we were finally able to enjoy them – which saw me at precisely 8 months pregnant. I ran to meet my time conscious husband at the train station after work on Wednesday (a school night, of all occasions!), then reminded myself that giving birth at the show might be a cool story for my child but not for me, and slowed to a sensible pace. I lamed us again in the final leg from Richmond station because my back hurt. “Now my front hurts. Now both.” (At this rate, Ben would NEVER get me on his shoulders in the mosh pit.)

We met Ben’s folks at the door and we three generations filed in to grab some fine Rod Laver grub. I queued up for a menu I couldn’t see and found there was no option but to indulge my fried food craving. Well, ok, there was grilled fish and salad, but only a maniac would try to eat that in a foyer. No option, I say!
To avoid further pressure on my bladder, I bought only one small bottle of water to sensibly sip throughout the show. Due to insatiable juice cravings, however, (I work at a food supply company and my mouth literally waters when a customer orders juice) I also had to down an entire bottle of OJ on account of having seen it, so.. That plan was a bust.

Only 20 minutes past the scheduled start time, I was faced with that old Shakespearean quandary – “To pee or not to pee?” My co-concert goers insisted, “You can’t miss the intro! Look at that pregnant lady in front of you – She’s being good!” (Oh.. I thought I was special but I could literally reach out and touch another pregnant lady. She told me to get my hands off her, but I had to prove my point) so I stupidly held for another 20 minutes before making like a boulder back down the stairs.  I returned to my seat in time for the band’s entrance and can proudly report there were no more dunny dashes (notable news, in my life).

I nervously awaited the baby’s reaction to the loudest sound I’d heard in 8 months. Once the mile long speakers started pumping, there was a stunned stillness from the womb. Next came a riot of kicking and punching which was probably panick, but I chose to dismiss as dancing!
The baby had no choice but to adapt to the new energy in the room because, by golly, those old boys have still got it. When the band hit the stage,  Mick jumped around to their opening Jumping Jack Flash and was still going strong a few sweat-laden towels and costume changes later. The intensity did ease off a bit when, by about song 4, we were treated to the live experience of our wedding song, Wild Horses. I gave one hand to Ben and put the other on my belly, and shed a little tear of appreciation.

Aside from keeping fresh, Jagger’s multiple looks for the evening served his more flamboyant sense of showmanship. They began with a sparkling, emerald green jacket and included a floor-dusting red and orange feather cape that represented fire. I’d expected the renowned Jagger ‘moves’ to be a little unco and comical, but although his unabashed expression did give us the occasional giggle, his performance was suave and fluid – almost as if he’d had 50 years’ experience, or something. It was rather funny to see a 71 year old skipping across the stage, but it was only when he’d slow to a fast-paced walk that you could see a stiffness and fragility (which perhaps was always typical of his movement. I couldn’t say). There were no restrictions to his hips, however, which I’d heard aptly said were like a 13 year old girl’s - in movement and appearance. Jagger’s still a wisp of a man and when considering his frame and 70s-inspired wardrobe, I realised he’d have no need to change when he was always loved as-is. And boy, do the girls still love him! I never bought Kesha’s interest in ‘dudes.. who look like Mick Jagger’ until I personally witnessed some attractive young ladies losing their shit in the crowd. I, too, loved Jagger’s cheeky banter and charisma but, I gotta stick to my agism. C’mon, girls.. 71.

Then, there was the player who looked much more suitably mellow for his age – Keith Richards. He and Mick are two of a kind; both belonged on the stage and looked completely at home. Keith, however, was incredibly understated while somehow maintaining a strong stage presence. He stood dreamily in the background and shared his life’s work without a flicker of self-doubt. When Mick needed a rest, Keith seamlessly took the mic and kept the show flowing on. Even his soft little pot belly seemed to work in with his whole chilled vibe.


Now, although I’m a fan of their music, I’m sure I don’t know enough about the band to fairly assess its members. But, lord knows I will, jerk that I am. I wasn’t overly impressed with Ronnie Wood, to be honest. I learned he’s the ‘baby’ of the group, but felt this didn’t explain why he was dressed like a 20-year old. He came off as affected and oddly attention-seeking, which reeked to me of insecurity. Once I’d made my initial judgment, though, I did come to appreciate the complimentary contrast between the three stars and how perfectly they worked together. Each was immersed in the music and their own role, but there was a palpable trust and unconscious awareness of one another, as between limbs on the same body. When a burst of energy seemed to move Mick or Ronnie blindly across the stage, there was never a risk of collision.

Finally, of course, there was Charlie Watts.. Who I didn’t even know was bona fide member until Ben mentioned him after the show! In fact, when he shared the final bow with the other 3 members, I wondered, “What’s that old fart doing?” (“Get off the stage!”) He looked like some generic old dude who was earning a crust and wanted to get home! Ben tells me now that he has been very ill and wasn’t easily convinced to go back on tour, so I do have a retrospective appreciation, now. On ya, Charlie.

Someone else I was peeking on throughout the show was Ben’s dad, whose ticket we  bought for Christmas. John was very still and quiet, a trademark of original fans at gigs – they record every detail with their eyes and ears to enjoy from memory later. I saw his knee jigging at one point, though, so he did allow for some minor grooving.

Whilst some long-time performers exceed their expiry to disappoint fans on modern day tours, time has only perfected The Stones. I came in expecting Jagger’s voice to have wearied but was thrilled to hear him match the calibre of his records.The band was accompanied by many talented vocalists and musicians, including an Aussie choir for the magical encore performance of You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Tickets may have cost us a fortune, but we paid for some good quality shit.

It wasn’t hard to imagine we were seeing the band in their hay day. I wanted to take photos but decided it more authentic to leave with just a ticket and a memory, like we might have 50 years ago. (Plus, I was scared I’d get caught and I don’t want to have a jail baby.) It struck me that The Stones themselves are an important part of history; I thought about what they’ve seen and done and the people they’ve known, and was humbled to be in their audience. We too felt historically significant by experiencing what may be the band’s last Aussie tour. Definitely one of the best gigs I’ve ever been to. Thank you, Benny, for getting our tickets.

Our one photo of an empty stage. *Memories.*

The First Trimester - Fully Sick.

And I swore I wouldn't be
on of those scan-posters!

When Ben and I decided to start a family, people told me to be patient. It can take a while for your cycle to get back to normal after contraception and these things just take time, anyway. Despite this sound advice, I had a really good feeling and was very disappointed when my first 3 eager pee tests gave me the olll’ single blue line middle finger. I’d reduced my caffeine intake to increase my chances, cut out alcohol and other ‘baddies’ and took to the bedroom from day 7 to 20 for the full scope of opportunity. Of course, this doesn’t compare to the struggle of many women, but when test 3 made it clear we were unsuccessful, I imagined going through this process every month for years and facing let-down after let-down. Annoyed at our first result, I stuffed myself with the rare meat and undercooked eggs I’d foregone and drank my share of booze to reassure everyone I wasn’t pregnant (as we old marrieds are obliged to do). At a friend’s wedding, I ordered a second glass of champagne and my mind screamed, “You can’t have another – It’s poison!’ (“Hmm, that’s weird.. I’ve never seen the poisonous drug alcohol as harmful, before.. Must be losing my taste for it.”) My breasts were a little tender and I was convinced that one had grown, but that was probably a natural symptom of ovulation that I’d long forgotten. Odd that I was so damn tired though, I thought, as we road-tripped to the next booze-laden destination.

I was running a little late getting ready for work, one day, and was even later for my period, so I thought it would be sensible to take one last, quick test. The slovenly pee stick finally woke-up and said, “What? Huh? Yep, I’m up.. Oh, yeah - you’re pregnant. Two blue lines” – which, incidentally, is all I could say to my husband. I called him at work, wheezing, “Two blue lines! Two lines! Ah, it’s normally one and now it’s two, so.. Y’know?!” Not wanting to give anything away to his colleagues, he took it all very professionally: “Mm-hm, uh-huh. Well, everything seems to be in order, madam. I’m delighted to partake in this endeavour and shall see you anon.”
I asked, “How the hell am I gonna get through the day?!” but what I should’ve wondered was how I’d get through the night.. After the worst sleep of my life, I learned that the same pregnancy hormone that knocks you out can also cause insomnia. Ah, the perfect balance. I went back to work on day two of ‘knowing’, as the most zombie-like, demented shell of a human I’ve ever resembled. I don’t know how anyone got any sense out of me (as I occasionally mumbled, “I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.”) and by god I wish I could’ve explained myself! We need to be very switched on in my job and are held accountable for mistakes, which are actually broadcast in an email at the end of the week. I’ll tell ya what, ‘Rosie’ was a pretty popular girl’s name in the old Error Book over the weeks to come!

I know we all hear about pregnancy knocking you out, but I just don’t think it’s made clear enough to women who haven’t experienced this that you will be tired in a way you have never known. That tiny bean of a baby will take you for all you’ve got, interrupting any rest you do get with the immediate, constant need to pee, so do take it easy. It probably wasn’t the best timing, then, that we received our good news only 3 days before moving house to be in a more baby-friendly, country area. I pried my eyes open with toothpicks by day, packed by night, and was ready to die by Moving Day. We were very lucky to have our mothers helping us who were first given the shock of their lives, then forbade me from carrying anything heavy or any serious scrubbing with strong cleaning products. I slipped away on the first day of the move for a doctor’s appointment, eager to hear that I hadn’t drowned my unborn in alcohol. The doctor laughed and said, “When I was pregnant.. No, I won’t tell you stories about drinking,” which I suppose was reassuring. The nurse’s office was another story, altogether.. I went in to smash out those first blood-tests and left over half an hour later, not before hearing all about my attendant’s children, ex-husband and his ‘crazy’ partner. She asked me nothing about myself but did give an expectant and resounding “thank you!” whenever I politely agreed that everybody is evil. Through her bad teeth and rich, ocker accent, she mentioned a few too many times that she was surprised she got this job and didn’t really know what she was doing. When we finally appeared to have finished and my thoughts went to Ben and Mum waiting for me, she continued to yammer-on as she slowly wrote further info on my blood-filled tubes. She marked down the time and was almost surprised to find we’d been there so long, admitting, “I don’t wanna bring in the next one. They’re all Asians.” At my shocked look, she amended, “Oh, nah, I don’t mind ‘em. There are just so many around here.” Ah, right. That’s much better. “Well,” I belatedly told her, “Must be going. I’m moving house, today.” Instead of lying and changing my identity, I also told her where to and she delightedly realised, “We’ll be neighbours!” Oh, goody.. Apparently, I’m on the better sound of town, though. Shocker! (Hey, if she hates Asians, then I can hate on the plebs.)

Among the things that I shouldn’t have done to my baby, in our early days of trying, I wanted to keep up with our friends and went on a ride at Moomba that span upside down and around. I was ill for hours afterwards and even the now oddly strong-smelling grass made me sick. Guess I wasn’t such a pussy, afterall! But no, that’s nothing to be proud of. Sorry, Baby.

Up until the 12-week ‘safe-zone’, we decided to share our joyous bundle of news with direct family, only. We told Dad at a party and his silence only lasted until his first guest arrived. Pointing at the unsuspecting newcomer, he asked, “Can I tell him?”
“Fine..” We could see how this was gonna go! Within days, my uncle and cousins were sending their congratulations and then felt awkward when they learned that we weren’t actually sharing, yet (God, Dad – Couldn’t you even tell them to keep your secret-spilling a secret?). I’m just glad I decided to tell my own sister over the phone instead of in person when I realised she wasn’t attending Dad’s party, that day. Clearly, if I hadn’t told her, he would have!

The growing group in the know all asked how I was feeling and I boasted that I hadn’t been sick.. Which was true until about week 7, when I began to feel nauseous from sun up ‘til sun down and couldn’t explain to one of my curious workmates why my appetite had suddenly become ferocious (“because when I don’t eat biscuits all day, I wanna vomit in your faces!”). Fortunately, there was never any puke to explain, but the nausea went hard for weeks. The sheer sight of steamed vegetables made me ill. Vegetables! “What’s wrong with you, Baby? Don’t you know what’s good for you?! Enough of this meat and carb diet.. Mama’s butt can’t take it.”

As a reward to the onset of Ill-fest, I also had my first scan at week 7. The little tot really did look like a kidney-bean, as they say – not even a tater-tot, yet! There was little to remark on at this preview, but it was pretty cool to see the ‘primitive’ heartbeat. (I will advise the inexperienced pregnant at this point, make a record of your test dates, last period dates and weigh yourself before appointments, because I never seem to have these answers ready!)
I had to start work late on account of this ‘ah, medical appointment..’ and grew nervous about the time when a queue banked-up at the exit gate. Either someone didn’t know how to insert their card or the machine was broken, but no-one cared to investigate in the rain for the first 5 minutes. The woman sitting second in line finally got out to help, first speaking to Driver 1, then inspecting the machine, then staring out into the distance (and, repeat). I called reception and was assured a gatekeeper would assist us. This time for reflection helped me remember that I hadn’t actually grabbed a medical certificate, so I left my car and dashed back inside, hoping that the girls at the desk could help me. The queue in reception was worse than the exit and the moment I got indoors, the cars naturally started to move, again. I could see the gatekeeper looking confusedly at my abandoned car, so I blurted (to no-one in particular), “Sorry, that’s my car!” and ran back outside to assure the car detective I’d only be a moment. Though my car was out of the way, its disorderly position wouldn’t stand and I was forced to park the damned thing again, after which I ran back through the rain and huffed and puffed at the girls at the desk who were ignoring me. In just 10 minutes, I’d gone from feeling like a well-put-together, respectable mama to looking like an absolute psychopath. At least I got my certificate and was on my (sort-of) merry way.

I was very concerned that work would clue-on to my mysterious appointment and that people would notice my wardrobe had suddenly grown quite small. Gone was anything that cinched-in at the waist, for although I didn’t look pregnant yet, I did look like I’d eaten 20 cheeseburgers every morning (which wasn’t far off with my new and improved appetite. I normally love to eat, but it became a chore very quickly). Ben downloaded a pregnancy app on his phone (funny boy) to track our progress and in week 9, he told me, “You will be experiencing extreme mood swings.”
I agreed, “Omigod! – I was just about to tell you what a crazy bitch I was at work, today!” ( Again, sorry, workmates.)

For the first-time pregnant, there is a lot of research to do and decisions to make and I have personally found it overwhelming. When registering online for my hospital of choice, for instance, I was thrown by the first question, “What type of care do you wish to receive?” Um.. The good kind? My options were share care, midwifery group or obstetrician. I barely understood what any of these meant and snapped the laptop shut to deal with the problem, nearly brought to hormonal tears as I was. One benefit of starting our family in our thirties, though, is that a lot of people we know and trust already have children, and they are all more than willing to offer help, advice and unwanted baby goods (score!). I am grateful for all that people have to offer, but you definitely have to go with your gut and listen to your own body. I still do weight training at the gym and lift over 10kg, contrary to medical advice, but I was doing this before pregnancy and it still feels right; I’ve reduced the weights a little and I do get breathless more easily, but this simply means taking a rest. Although I have personally preferred not to drink, I am hearing everywhere that a little alcohol is perfectly fine. I did also get some very good advice from a masseuse, recently. A side effect of not being able to use my stomach muscles is a very sore lower back, so as this perfect stranger pulled down my undies and rubbed my butt, she also suggested that I start looking at day care centres now. “Put your name on a few lists and ask for 5 days, because you never know what will suit you when you return to work. If a spot opens up and you’re not ready, tell them to give it to the next person and put you back at the top. I know a woman who waited until she had the baby before she started looking, but you’ll find you’re too busy. Now, this woman only has two months to go before starting work and she hasn’t found a day care.” Noted!

By 12 weeks, the nausea had certainly eased up and now I can’t wait to get right into my second trimester. Once I’ve got that beautiful belly, I can switch to maternity wear and (hopefully) won’t have to just sneakily undo my pants at work (then forget to do them back up when I leave my desk). Despite the niggles of the first trimester, it has been a very pleasant experience. I am constantly surprised by the widespread joy and excitement this little bun in the oven incites. I’m well aware that I am just the vessel for the little prince or princess to come, however, and am enjoying all the attention before I am finally, and fairly, sidelined. Mama out.

All Play & No Work: Crashing Ben's Christmas Party.

This Christmas tale begins with a certain work function for a certain husband. That husband.. Was mine! *Scary music.* [I get confused over genre.]

Last Friday night, I was invited to catch an old train out to Woodend [ooh, this does sound scary] for Ben’s company Christmas party. Strictly informed that latecomers would not be waited on, my time-conscious husband hustled me to the meeting point 10 hours pre-departure time with the promise of a drink. He clipped my heels along to the upstairs bar at Spencer St, where we would watch for our group like hawks, but the perfect plan (and Ben) deflated when we found the bar had morphed into a Hungry Jacks. While I was still gathering my bearings, Ben quickly sniffed out another bar and back downstairs we went.

                                          Cheeky workmates.

A queue finally gathered beside the ‘Red Rat’(tler) train which silently awaited our breathe of life. Ben thoughtlessly brushed his fingers over the old girl and said of his handful of dust, “Yep. She’s authentic, alright.” I was shepherded away from the ‘big boss’ in the queue, so an to avoid an awkward train ride, and our cabin was finally comprised of Ben’s own department, their manager and his wife. I had some momentary concern over the wife, who looked a lovely, Julie Andrews type, but my inhibitions were lost once plied with liquor on an empty stomach.

A young man, comedian by day, came by with some very loose, deadpan safety instructions:
“Don’t lean too far out the window.”
“How far is too far..?”
“Don’t stick anything important out. Maybe just your head.”
This seeming to conclude our important warning, it was asked, “Where's the closest toilet?”
Our host pointed, “There are toilets down that end, and toilets down that end, and sometimes one in the middle. But ya can’t use all of ‘em.”
“Well, which can’t we use?!”
“Mm, not sure. They’ll be locked.”
Great!
Someone suggested that it’d be easier to pee out the window and I warned, “Just don’t stick your dick out too far!” then again became hyper aware of the manager’s wife. I felt better when I later heard a crude story from Julie Andrews herself: She'd had a garage sale and her brother brought over some things to sell. "I’ve always felt bad that a little old lady bought his collection of glasses when one of them said, ‘How many donuts do you think I can fit on my dick?’ Who knows, though? – Maybe she only bought the clean ones to get that glass.”

Our pre-dinner train nibbles were finally brought out a little after 8pm, by which time I was ravenous. I greedily took two sandwiches quarters from the first tray and proceeded to slop mustard pickle down my top (all watched closely by the very presentable Mary Poppins!). I went to clean myself up in one of functional toilets (which could be this way, that way or somewhere in the middle) and had that all too familiar sense of ‘that’d be right’ when the bathroom stocked sanitiser, but no water. I did what I could with paper towel, cleaned my hands with the gel (which felt oddly soapy..) then noticed a weird, round, antique contraption secured against the wall. I pushed down a lever at the top and, voila! – Down came a sink. My top cleaned-up nicely and dried-off, successfully quashing my look of ‘sloppy bitch’ (at least in regard to my dress).
Clearly having received the same vague bathroom directions as the rest of us, a large, loud character popped his head into our cabin and asked, “Is this the bathroom?”
The joke was repeated as he passed by the other cabins and met with the same shrill laughter that we produced. Ah, toilet humour. Never gets old.

Another visitor to our cabin was the company boss who stood in our doorway speaking seriously, completely unaware that there was a streamer hanging across his head. At the time, this was the funniest thing I'd ever seen and my hysterical reaction caught on to one of Ben's workmates, whose subsequent laughter rekindled my own, and back and forth we went (again, the streamer-headed gentleman remained in the dark, but I'm sure my apparent nonsensical behaviour will win Ben a raise. I guess it wouldn't have helped, anyway, to explain, "Don't worry, I'm not crazy. I just think you look ridiculous.").

We arrived at Woodend after 9 and jiggled our ravenous bellies into the warm, country pub for dinner. Main meal aside, I was finally pleased that my husband loathes dessert – Although I’d normally be too coy to order sweets for one, alternate plates were placed wordlessly before us and I drunkenly laid into Ben’s red velvet cake and my lemon meringue without a sober thought of calories. Delicious (and a little sickening, once I took a moment to breathe). I had a chat over dessert with a transsexual employee who, I thought interesting, continued on in her warehouse career despite the now overt femininity. Not that work should be gender specific or that transsexuals must be mentioned, but hey, these things still twang in my tiny mind.
Another woman returning to her table with sweat upon her brow, mentioned only that it was rather hot in the tiny room designated for dancing. All I heard was ‘dance,’ and asked, “Are you dancing? Have you just been for a dance? Do you wanna dance? Dance? Spinning? Jumping? Bopping? Dance?” The poor thing (and complete stranger) begrudging asked that I wait while she finished her drink, then led me back out to the groove floor where I did m’ thang like a maniac.

Back on the train, I realised my hopping and bopping had lost me an earring. In love as I was with my spangly accessories, my hard, anti-hoarding line overrode this and out went the other earring, through the window and onto the tracks. Let some kid find it and wonder how the hell it got there. Once sober, however, I sadly realised that I could’ve simply phoned the pub and ask that they collect my earring from the small square of floor where I was fairly certain it would be. But, thinkin’ and drinkin’ never are one. Bye-bye, darling earrings. Go separate ways and live your lives. Despite this devastation, my dancing career wasn’t over. Our group walked the length of the train to check out what they called, ‘the Cattle Car,’ a barbed wire lined carriage for dancing. Despite copious amounts of alcohol, people only stood along the walls, indeed as dull as cattle. I asked Ben, “Dare me to dance through everybody like a dickhead?!”
“Yeah, whatever. I don’t care.”
“Oh.. Well, I’m gonna do it, anyway. Woo!” and off I went. I did rouse the masses for a moment there, which was a small reward for my self-inflicted embarrassment.

When the Red Rat hit the city, our proceeding journey home was quite the story in itself. Thinking we’d do better than the free bus that might’ve left us about a 10 minute walk from our house, we trod into the city to stalk the streets for a cab. Without a single vacancy light in sight, Ben stomped down the road in palpable frustration and attempted to wave down the unlighted cabs. Well aware of taxi drivers’ caution when it comes to big, white, drunken males in the middle of the night, I asked Ben to hang back and let me do the scouting. Still angry and determined, however, he didn’t move far from my side and I’m sure the drivers were aware of our trick. Soon enough, we’d walked from Spencer St to Flinders St Station, where we noted not a single cab in the rank. We were further surprised to see that the trains were still running at that time and checked for our own line’s departure. With only two minutes to spare, we ran to our platform and managed to catch a very direct ride home, transforming our mission from utterly hopeless to practically perfect. Perfect, it would've been, if the station announcements on the train had been correct! Exhausted and intoxicated, we paid no attention to the outside world and when our station was called, Ben tried to pull open the doors but saw only tracks where there should’ve been a platform. Confused, we figured we must still be one stop from home, but didn’t recognise the next station, either, as part of our run. A kind stranger who asked of our destination regretfully informed us we'd passed it three stations ago. We’d exchanged a one-minute walk from our own stop for a 40 minute trek through the suburbs! Just to top it off, as we approached the first main road, a lit-up taxi passed us by, never wise to our existence. Ben, who had been utterly wrecked on the train, was clearly furious over this nightmarish, added leg to our journey, so I accepted a silent end to our raucous evening. I also knew I wouldn't make it home in my heels and walked the filthy footpath barefoot.

Hey, at least our night wasn’t over when we stepped off the train, right? This was one of the best Christmas parties I’ve attended (and it wasn’t even mine! Maybe that’s the secret) so it was well worth the very brick-like legs when I finally hit my bed. Just fantabulous. Merry f’ing Christmas, y’all.

Closet Bogans

Approaching Etihad to finally cash in on our 6 month held tickets, last night, the crowd suddenly split in two. I chose right over left which led us directly to our seats, confirming that I am completely psychic and should be employed on a true crime show (tomorrow).

Act 1, for this long awaited show, was a man whose lyrics consisted purely of his own name: Kid & Rock. Sharing only the Americana of our key performer, he was otherwise the savoury, selfless man’s antithesis. We were bombarded by pics of the Kid with a slathering of the bootilicious and then, to draw on our mindless emotion for the sake of his finale, a barely relevant projection of the late Nelson Mandela. He changed hats several times throughout the set, sporting an ‘American Badass’ cap as he lit up a cigar and chugged some whiskey, an unconvincing image in the fully lit, half empty stadium.  As the disinterested crowd still hunted their seats, I can at least give the kid full credit for his unwavering energy. I almost felt sorry when he threw his arms in the air, right and then left, which was supposed to be met with screams of, “Kid! [Kid].. Rock! [Rock],” but smacked straight into silence. Energy or no, however, my impatience for the main act was successfully amped by the time he was done! The stadium crew finally came to cleanse his smut from the stage, which was nicely designed to resemble the hood of a car, true to our main man’s open road theme.

Watching the last of the ticket holders trickle in, I was cruelly amused by the sight of some larger ladies after Ben had predicted, “There are gonna be some middle-aged mamas throwing their giant panties onto the stage, tonight!” Ancient women in their ancient tour tees carefully cluttered down the stairs, one poor dear spilling her drink at every step despite holding on to the shoulders of every seated person she passed. Bums found seats, lights went down and the roar of the crowd signalled the entrance of.. Bon Jovi! - Singing a slow song I’ve never heard. It was quite the anti-climax. Next up was You Give Love a Bad Name (which Ben and I love to repeat back at home as “BAED name!”), however, and all was forgiven. The sea of middle-aged creakingly rose and a lady before me danced with a typical mumsy butt-sway and head toss. By track 3, another slowy, the ladies before us looked around and we all giggled in unspoken agreement, ‘We don’t wanna stand on these old feet any longer than we have to. Sitting time!’ and back down we went. It was going to be a very comfortable show!

Bon Jovi was just as lovely as you’d imagine. His big, frequent smile emanated kindness and his denim jacket, with stars and stripes at the waist, was much more convincing of a good-boy image than were Kid Rock’s attempts at bad-boy. Without a trace of narcissism, he clearly loved his fans and thrived on his crowd’s attention, busting some eccentric moves which Ben deemed as ‘a road to Jagger-town’ to cheers of approval. Having just come from our nephew’s third birthday party, where he’d persisted in crushing a green marshmallow into his mouth and hands because I’d been laughing so hard, I was reminded of this child-like propensity for silliness upon encouragement. I could imagine Bon Jovi saying, “and now look at THIS, mum!” as he strutted about like a chicken. When the band seamlessly detoured into The Rolling Stones’ Jumping Jack Flash, I sniggered over Ben’s earlier Jagger prediction.

For some time, now, whenever we’d hear Bon Jovi on the radio, Ben and I would exchange a ridiculously serious look and a nod, and sing along intently with our best redneck accents. Despite this good-natured marital fun, I never considered myself a fan, but when I heard of their upcoming tour, I realised, “Shit, yeah, that’d be rool good, ‘n’ stuff. I know all the werrrds,” and demanded Ben buy tickets as my birthday ‘surprise.’ I learned, on Saturday night, just how well so many other Aussies know Bon Jovi’s lyrics, the chorus of the crowd drowning out the man and his band during every classic tune. I could see how frustrating it might become to perform all the ‘old stuff,’ for this reason, and forgave them for excluding one or two of my favourites (even though they could’ve gone out with a bang by ending on Blaze of Glory. ‘Sall I’m sayin’). I also learned that I cannot escape the fact of my fandom, after emitting an involuntary squeal over the intro of Bad Medicine. That was a good one to old-lady-dance to.

Just as the band had begun right on schedule, in accordance with their middle aged crowd’s sensibilities, they didn’t have us waiting long for an encore following their obligatory false finish. Which unheard classic would they reward us with for our two minute wait?! Softly, Jon Bon attempted to treat us with a lovely, acoustic opening for Livin’ On a Prayer.. and was again overridden by his fans, who altered the tempo to its traditional speed. The good-natured guy appeased his offbeat followers and joined us in an old school, rock style version.

Barring the mind-numbing opening act, the show was just as fun as expected (LOTS of). It was fitting that I was horribly sore from the gym, yesterday, and hobbled my way out of the stadium with all the other old girls. This is the only show I’ve been to where the women’s bathroom has actually run out of toilet paper; based on the sheer volume of female fans, I am now less embarrassed to count myself among ‘em. I only wish I’d brought along my pair of giant undies to throw in approval.

Thanks for my ‘surprise,’ Benny.

                              

                                 A sea of light, at Bon Jovi's request.

Ben, feigning interest in Kid Rock.

Bourbon cheers.

Wine on the Mind: Yarra Valley '13.

“Started out.. Just drinkin’beer.”  Actually, it was wine (then beer), but the nips were gettin’ bigger.

The time had come for our annual excursion of organised drunkery, this weekend, so we piled into Amber’s  ’63 EH Holden, built for road trippin’, and revved our way over to ‘Vintage House,’ Healesville. Straight-framed, straight-laced driver Bill collected us from our accommodation, and it was all aboard the fun bus of Yarra Valley Winery Tours. Promised a friendly dog and a friendlier winemaker at our first stop, Millers, the dog became acquainted with our crotches, indeed. When our wine man finally, begrudgingly appeared, however, he paid no heed to our persons or our enticing crotches. Amber apologised, “I hope we haven’t come at a bad time,” and was unabashedly told, “I was in the middle of some things.” Wine guy (who was sadly less inviting than his long, reaching eyebrows) skipped the standard offer of his full range of wines and instead asked curtly, “What do you want to try?” We sipped a few awkwardly requested over a crackling radio, and our subsequent purchases still bought us no love. Amber noted the Hawks scarf draped over a railing and asked our new acquaintance if he’d enjoyed the Grandfinal. Our near escape from the inhospitality thus turned into a long-winded history of old mate’s family’s football affiliations. At least we knew the satisfaction of squeezing a little friendliness from a cranky old fart.

There were higher hopes for Round 2 at an old tour favourite - Sticks. True to past experience, our barman was jovial and engaging and happily answered our stupid questions. When Ben described one wine as “a little bit Led Zeppelin and a little bit Hendrix,” wine guy mentioned he’d been thinking of having people write down their own creative descriptions, like such. My description was taken less seriously when I cried from an underdeveloped palette, “This one tastes like a Prima!” That’d be one damned expensive glass of fruit drink.

With lunchtime already upon us, we descended upon Whispering Hills for our third tasting to be followed by our cost-included meal. I wasn't enamoured with the wines there, myself, but the food was to die for! Disappointed when first faced with the simple choices of fish or steak, they proved the tastiest versions of meats and accompaniments that I’d had in a long while. I went the salmon with a pea puree, sweet, spiced beetroot and perfectly crispened potatoes.. Nice work, kitchen peeps.

This is where my busy week at work began to take its toll. The meal heightened my already encroaching fatigue (the barrel of wine may also have had something to do with it), and I spent the remainder of the day struggling to keep my lame-arse, old woman eyes open.  Those lame-arse eyes managed to see the beautiful view when we arrived at Riverstone winery, a beautiful building itself, overlooking the mountains. Judging by the set-up, they were closed in preparation for a wedding, but it was lovely to know a bride and groom were soon be enjoying the same impressive backdrop. There’d be no cold feet with that view.

I perked up a little thanks to the lively host at Coombe Farm, the final winery of the day.  A far cry from our first stop, quick-witted Nicky joked with her customers almost like her livelihood depended on it! While pouring our rosé, she warned in the form of a nursery tune, “This is the reason I have four kids, be careful in the mor-ning.” The woman swore like a trooper and, when spotting an unexpected visitor wandering into her vineyard, chased him with a bottle for our amusement. Now, that’s a reception!
Not surprisingly, this winery was already packed when we arrived. Nicky asked where we hailed from and at the mention of South Gippsland, another tour guide oddly blurted “Fish Creek!” which happened to be the tiny town where Amber and I grew-up. The stout little psychic, decked out in his running suit with a gold chain around the neck and his hair glued to his forehead, asked our driver’s permission, “Can I tell them a joke?” Something so corny it was funny followed, which I have fortunately since forgotten. (Partial to corniness, myself, I may have otherwise repeated it.)

The next tasting was of the cheese variety at Yarra Valley Dairy. Most everything was a perfect flavour explosion, from ash encased goats cheese to a chive infused cream cheese. Unfortunately, we ended on a very stinky, non-refridgerated soft cheese that, to our unsophisticated tastes, bore a little too much ‘old sock’ character and wouldn’t leave our noses for a good while thereafter.

Back at Vintage House, we popped a few bottles that may have been better appreciated sober, and I managed to eat most of a packet of crackers I’d bought from the dairy. We tumbled down to the pub where Ben and Marty befriended every white-haired fellow within elbow’s range. I literally elbowed one old dude behind me who announced that I must be the new bouncer, so his nearby mates entered a phony squabble and asked me to break them up. Funny, country codgers. Amber met up with her ex-step-mother and her partner who live in the area and when I was overcharged for dinner, Glen got up from own his meal to demand my money back, which was very sweet. Usually a comparative health freak, I’d given myself permission to indulge on the finer foods of the the Yarra Valley region. Rather than spending this grant on homemade breads and delicate sweets, however, I went from my packeted cracker gorge to ordering fish and chips for dinner, eating every chip on my plate and some from other people’s. I literally had to be pulled away from the table to stop and we stumbled back to the house for a night of broken, drunken sleep. Our pillows, which seemed lovely and fluffy at first, habitually shifted their stuffing from under our heads and we were all episodically punching them back into shape through the night – except for Marty, apparently, who cleverly folded his over from the start. Another interruption was Ben’s agonised puking, his midnight bathroom whimper heard throughout the house. Poor little fella keeps his body so pure that he threw it out of sorts with a day of abuse!  Somebody also managed to break two wine glasses in the night, which none of us overheard, oddly.

We took breaky at the nostalgic Monroe’s Café, run by the high-spirited gentleman selling raffle tickets at the pub the previous evening. He shook the boys’ hands and confessed, “Your tickets may not have even made it into the draw. I was pretty pissed, last night.” We ate a breakfast for winners, in any case, the scrambled eggs among the most fluffy and yellow I’ve seen.

And now, the dream is over. I will soon forget my lousy pike-out of sleepiness, remembering only the wild times as I overlook the bottles of 2013 and long for the Wino tour of 2014. Thanks for the memories, lads.

Why I Hated Thailand, Part 2: Hand Me My Pants!

Several months have passed since Thailand and I called it quits. Now that your suspense has built and my pain has eased, I'm ready to finish my story.. Actually, I became a little type-shy after a reader's criticism of Part 1 but, as I like to follow-through, my stubbornness prevailed. After all, there are still plenty of people left to offend.

It was a rainy Thursday on January 3^rd when I disappeared into a ridiculous poncho, piled onto the back of an overcrowded ute and waved goodbye to Koh Lanta. The next stage of the journey was by ferry, where we sat behind a row of fat Russians who ate for the entirety of the trip, stuffing their biscuit wrappers into the air vents above. When the very beautiful Railay Beach came into view, we boarded longtail boats to reach the shore. Finally wading through the shallows on foot, I was pleased I’d received Aga’s warning against a wheely suitcase and had borrowed my brother’s backpack. Ain’t no roads in Railay.

Our new holiday spot offered luxury heaped upon eyesores. A ragged construction site led the way to our hotel and the lovely restaurants were bordered by rubbish-strewn pathways and great, stinking burn-offs. The great little strip of shops, bars and eateries made an appealing spot for Thai youth and tourists alike. Our hotel rooms were delightfully deluxe, and we 30-somethings preferred to enjoy our evening drinks in the quiet of the poolside.

The pretty, little beaches were nestled by the cliffs where muscular climbers could be spotted day and night. Sunbathers shamelessly turned their backs to the water, preferring the rock-climbers over the less shapely swimmers. Ben created the game, “Spot the European” as a jibe against the larger, incredibly hairy men who looked like they’d used an all over brylcreem after taking a dip. One poor bastard, who was otherwise attractive, had tattoos down his arms and back that gave the unfortunate appearance of this popular wet hair pattern. Chinese tourists wore their floaties in the shallows while their friends took photos, serving as proof they’d been for a swim; This was a rare sight for us, having come from a beach-bound country where swimming lessons are of the standard curriculum.

At the further, prettier and luckily less known beach, many had paid tribute to a fertility shrine, effectively creating a mountain of wooden phalluses inside a small cave. Joining this beach oddity was the sudden appearance of monkeys at mealtimes. Whilst other tourists delighted at the exotic creatures which they fed and handled, Ben and I found their swaggering confidence off-putting. One monkey who sat on the fence and scratched his anus at eye level particularly ruined the romance; he likely used his stink hand shortly thereafter to climb a child. Further down from the main swimming area, a row of small, fast food boats were banked on the shore. I could only wonder how they met health standards as it was unlikely I’d like the answer, I opted not to try!

Many restaurants in Railay offered similar, large menus of Thai and Western food, as well as a range of bbq options displayed on ice. When Aga complained to a restaurateur that she saw no shark, one evening, he protested, “But, I didn’t catch any!” This put a dampener on the fact we’d been following Aga and Anatol out into the deep water, being that the shark risk is too great in Australia. I figured, “These guys travel a lot. They must know what they’re doing.” Those local Railay sharks better be toothless (and not the hammerheads we saw on a Thai fish chart..).

It’s a tragedy, I know, but the infamous heights of Thai service continued to elude us in Railay. Each restaurant had a spattering of customers and an abundance of staff and yet, we rarely seemed to meet! Had our food not been served at Starvation o’clock, the staff’s remarkable inattention to detail could’ve been enjoyed as a free comedy routine. Splitting a bill between one couple and one group of 4 sometimes took more and never less than 15 minutes, after several versions of calculations. After one such evening of interpretive service, we joined a crowd in front of a bar to await a ‘free’ Thai boxing match. Aga was curtly informed by the bar owner that if we didn’t buy a drink, we had to go. When she complained that the rude tone was unnecessary, the woman went on, “All we ask is that if you can’t afford 100 baht for a drink, please leave.” Well, when you put it that way! Only moments beforehand, Ben and I had been singing the praises of customer service in Australia, warning our friends they’d be drowned in politeness should they come to visit. I was very embarrassed, then, to admit that the lovely lady they’d just met was one of our own! Probably from Sydney though.. Or, Adelaide. Look, maybe even Canberra. In any case, we chose our pride over the supporting the woman’s business and walked away from the boxing match we’d been looking forward to seeing.

I’d learned from my laundry experience in Koh Lanta to keep track of the clothing submitted for cleaning. When I again entrusted our washing to a business in Railay, I first made a list of all our items. As we queued with our washing behind some other stinky travellers, we could hear an episode of violent illness from the lane of cheap accommodation. We laughed to ourselves over the screaming-vomit, assuming it was the aftermath of a jolly good evening. When we collected our washing the following morning, I checked my trusty list and found not one pair of undies was missing, as in Koh Lanta.. All of my underwear was, including an expensive bra! I questioned the storekeeper who, as in the previous instance, suggested, ah.. Absolutely nothing. I took matters into my own hands and rummaged through other tourists’ knickers until I thankfully found my own.
That very evening, I was vomiting with an intensity I’d never known and regretting my amusement at the man down the lane. It started as a niggle in the belly when we were out at dinner, but as I promptly tried to return to my room, I only made it several yards from the table before my body tried to eject whatever poison I’d ingested. The rows of restaurants had prime view of my scream-pukes over the footpath and onto the shoreline. Not sure what to do with my mess, I kicked over some rocks like a cat trying to cover it’s poop. Laying down in our room, if I rolled over, I puked; if I sipped water, I puked; unfurled from foetal position, puked. After a few hours of this, when I began to taste a bile that I suspected was my stomach lining, I ate a banana and felt ok. Praise the miracle fruit!

On Monday, Jan 7^th, Aga and Anatol, our two favourite things in Thailand, departed for the final phase of their journey. My other enjoyment had been the food, but as my recovering stomach now squelched at every foreign smell, I found myself just waiting out our final days. There must be something very odd-shaped about my behind because I can never find trousers to fit, so on our last Tuesday, I decided to have some tailor-made. I was concerned as to whether this could be done before our Thursday departure and grew warier still by the Indian shopkeeper’s “Anything’s possible!” attitude. Though I immediately knew this man for a bullshitter, I was measured for two pairs of pants to his smarmy delight and paid my 1000 baht deposit. For a little insurance, I claimed we’d be leaving at 1pm instead of 4 and was assured my pants would be ready Thursday morning.

This agreeable tone naturally diminished once I’d parted with my deposit and I had to call past 3 times on the Wednesday before I was invited for my first fitting, with only one of the two pairs available. My ‘guaranteed’ second fitting was dismissed altogether and when I arrived for the Thursday collection, the tailor claimed he’d thought I was leaving on Friday. I returned at the newly agreed upon 12pm and waited on his doorstep in the hot, Thai sun for an hour under the pretense of his sign, “Back in 20 minutes.”  In this period of reflection, I realised I had little with which to bargain. I succumbed to deranged, furious visions of throwing his materials out into the mucky, nearby sea if he refused to return my deposit. With ample time left for my rage to subside, I concluded (a little more reasonably) that if my pants were presented, I would simply deduct an amount from the balance normally allotted to ‘customer service.’

The tailor finally came running down the path with my pants but I was deaf to his flurry of excuses.  I silently tried the pants behind the curtain to ensure they fit before making my offer. Having haggled in Thailand before, I was surprised at the man’s outraged reaction. He would not consider less on the price he claimed was “for a product.”
“No,” I resolved, “I’m paying for a product and a service. You lied to me, you made me wait out in the heat and you’ve treated me like an idiot.”
Though the tailor had cost us our imaginary taxi boat, I was confused by his offer to pay for another, which would surely be less cost-effective than reducing my balance. His next suggestion was to prevent me from leaving Railay altogether, so I tried a compromise. “I’m not going to pay the full amount, but tell me a price you think is fair.”
He angrily relented, “I don’t want to fight you - you’re my customer. Be happy,” walking me out the door and slamming it shut. 

Not accustomed to enraging people, I was left feeling low and second-guessing myself. It was only after trying the pants on again in Australia that I was relieved I hadn’t paid in full. One pair proved unflatteringly tight, the other had an iron-on patch to hide a tear and neither had been made to my specifications. I was still unaware of all this, however, when our taxi boat arrived and a mute, bedraggled old Thai man walked us out through the shallows. I felt like a criminal caught when I noticed that his uniform bore the tailor shop’s logo! I could almost taste the mushrooms grown from my Thai prison floor. Our host remained as unimpressed by me, though, as he was by the water slowly pooling inside our dingy vessel, which he calmly scooped back out to the sea.

We shared our boat with a Thai mother and child who I fancied partook in this ‘great escape,’ but were more likely locals, just popping out. I have never been so relieved to reach a pier as I was, that day! A mini-van ride later, we arrived at Krabi airport with a few hours to kill. Unbeguiled by the single, basic café out front, we chose to hold-off on dinner until we’d checked-in. True to our luck, the only food past check-in was sold at an even more basic snack shop, which didn't take eftpos, to boot. As we’d deliberately spent our Thai money to avoid the bother of exchange, this left us with an entire 36 baht for dinner! Although I would normally sacrifice meal size to the maintenance of my beefcake husband, the tiny packet of cream wafer biscuits we bought was divided evenly. I took a cup from an empty water cooler to fill it from another, then noticed that the second cooler was lacking its tank, entirely. We did have a giggle over our cartoon-like situation; we may have even boiled our boots, had there been water. Our ridiculous pre-flight meal led to our ravenous consumption of the bizarre plane food, which included a donut filled with satay.

Rosie’s conclusion: So, What Does This All Mean? 

(Ben suggested this end title as a joke, but I like it).

Of all the things I’ve ingested, nothing has ever tasted as good as that sweet, Melbourne air when we arrived back home. (Mmm, aeroplane fumes..) I was thrilled to see our Polish mates again and the trip certainly had its fun times, but I think it’s safe to say that Thailand and I won’t stay in touch. I clearly hate campin' and should stick to glamping.

       The nice times.

Rosie in the Sky with Strangers.

                                                                      Sleepy city.

I snapped awake on a sweltering Saturday night to find I was lying in a pool of my own sweat (and not some hobo’s, again). Ben and I threw our slim, floral, slightly diseased guest mattresses from the 1970s (we like visitors to enjoy unique bedding) downstairs to the cooler lounge, where my suffering was echoed by the alarm clock’s slaughterhouse bleating at 3:45am.

I was due in the city at 5am on Sunday (standing ovation!) to meet for a graceful mode of flight I had long hoped to try. Family and friends made my dream a reality with a hot air balloon voucher for my 30^th birthday. They may have been obligated by the blatant request on my invitation, which was covered in balloon pics (as well as the bucket at my party marked to, “Insert life savings”), but they were generous all the same. An early morning zombie experience was not a part of this dream, but as my voucher included breakfast, I held off on eating brains.

Arriving at the recommended parking area at a delightful 4:30am, I pulled up a short distance from a van on the otherwise deserted Lansdowne street. I became aware of a tall man with long, shaggy hair brushing his teeth outside the van as I hastened to the ticket machine which naturally wouldn’t accept my payment. The man watched a little too closely as I ran to the next machine to face more rejection and an instruction to check the signs. But, I’d already “checked the signs and now I’m gonna be late! I better not miss my ride after getting up this early on a.. Sunday. Ohh, parking’s free, today.” I left the would-be rapist to find several more attackers guarding the park down Treasury Place. The shadowy figures were eerily still, which made a lot more sense when I discovered they were statues. Aside from this crazed, early-morning paranoia, it was pretty cool to see the city free of crowds and traffic.

I avoided human contact at the Sofitel Hotel, more so for the safety of others. With my no-sleep induced mental fuzz, I could only answer in grunts and a vacant stare when a pilot checked my details. My fellow ballooners and I were split into 3 groups and I followed Peter the pilot and his crew woman, Mika, down to their white mini-van. With Mika behind the wheel, I finally considered her tall, boyish figure and shaggy blonde hair and realised.. She was van guy on Lansdowne! I presume she had parked overnight for her early start and only wanted to tell me not to worry about a ticket. But, you know what they say: Better to kick someone in the non-existent balls and run away screaming than to risk a conversation. 

As we headed out, Peter explained the process of inflating the balloon and climbing aboard. He warned us to keep our distance from the high powered fan as “it’s very difficult to clean out the blood spatters from inside the balloon.” This dad-joke was met with a zealous chorus of tension-breaking chuckles (“He wouldn’t be joking about killing us if ballooning was actually dangerous, right? Hahahaha!”), highlighting the importance of such humour among pilots. Before my tandem skydive several years ago, an instructor demonstrated the safe diving method to his group. His moves, which were carefully mimicked, ended with a rapid flapping of the elbows that is also known as the Chicken Dance. I certainly hope the real demonstration followed, though!

To find the best launch space and again check safety conditions, our assembly of vans pulled over and a big, black helium balloon was released into the wind. This overtly manual test served to remind us of the unpredictable nature of weather and, as it took several minutes, I began to fear a sudden cancellation. Having gotten out of the van to watch and stretch, I realised the high risk of interaction with the other ballooners, who were far too alive at that hour, and scrambled back to my seat to doze. I went unnoticed as a man well into his 60s also returned with his wife (whose facial ‘enhancements’ masked her approximate, similar age), and so had to listened to the pair debate the task at hand. “Couldn’t they have done this before we met this morning?” the woman sniped. “That way, we could’ve slept another 15 minutes!”

“Is it part of the experience?” Her husband hopelessly wondered.
“I’d prefer to be sleeping.”
“I don’t know if they could’ve done this earlier..”
“Well if they could’ve..” This continued until the woman declared with certainty, “It’s part of the experience!” as though her husband had been complaining!

Eventually, it was deemed safe and best to start our flight from an oval around a 20 minute drive away. Mika shut down the engine to release the balloon’s basket from the trailer and, when attempting to drive forward to complete the release, the van’s battery said, “Nup. Don’t feel like it.” (I heard it.) I again started fretting that we wouldn’t touch the sky, that day, but was very impressed by how quickly the crew pulled together to bitch-slap that lazy battery into action. As the staff arranged a jump-start, a tomboy from my group strutted over with a torch and desperately offered, “Do ya need a light?” Stressed and slightly embarrassed, Peter mumbled that they were fine. It was with discomfort then, when I watched the girl return not a minute later to repeat her offer while forcefully shining her light! She was refused more audibly the second time around.

With the van moved and basket lowered, our very large balloon was unfurled. Two volunteers held it open as air was fanned inside, which was then heated by several long bursts of flame. We were told that once the balloon began to ascend, tipping up the basket which was initially laid on its side, we were to quickly climb into our assigned compartments. Mika had tied the basket to the van to prevent anyone being left behind! The basket was divided into three areas; one was for the pilot and gas supply and the remaining 9 of us were told which side to take to ensure equal weight. Bummer if you were the only one in your third, huh? I was the first (but not only!) one into my side and was unfortunately followed by the biggest dickhead on the planet. Probably better that I stood as a buffer between he and Peter, however, so our pilot could focus on what proved a very demanding role. I had read that hats were recommended to block the heat of the flame but had decided to leave my hooded jacket in the van when asked to part with unnecessary weight. It’s a common misconception that it will be cold up in the balloon, but you don’t rise high enough to reach cooler air than that of ground-level. Loser man remarked, “Don’t have a hat? It’s gonna be mighty toasty!” He had already mentioned that this was his second balloon ride and would continue with his know-all commentary as a reminder. Mika loaned me a hat and dork-breath assured me as we fired up for take-off, “This is the longest the flame will run.”

We gracefully rose to a height that made the trees, houses and cars look like a giant Lego scape. We initially drifted slowly as the sun came up, which was lovely and peaceful, but I enjoyed our flight best when we cut through the air with bird-like speed. It was odd sight when a flock of birds passed beneath us. We flew high enough to gain a unique perspective on the city in the distance and low enough to look into people’s backyards. Everything looked surreal, a train on the track below us resembling a model. The dork took photos of absolutely everything and was not afraid to barge into my space with his big, wanky camera. He should’ve been afraid, as I had more than one thought of knocking his prized possession out of his hands. I was using my phone for photography and occasionally held it over the edge with care. I considered it a dig when the wanker asked Peter, “Do many people lose items from the balloon?” and remember thinking with fury, “I’ll risk dropping my own damn phone if I want to!”

Hopeless as ever with geography, I am not entirely sure where we were, but I do know we flew over “Northcote Hall!” as my mate pronounced before taking multiple snaps. He also pointed out a ‘Tiger Moth’, which I believe is a light plane, but I didn’t want to turn around to look and give him the satisfaction! (He annoyed me just a little.)

I was surprised by the work that went into piloting the balloon. Peter constantly had to pick which wind to ride to control, as best he could, our speed and direction, all the while rotating the balloon to alternate our views. He was frequently on the walkie-talkie with Mika and the other pilots, as even the landing space is initially indeterminable, and my best mate added his own responses as though he was part of the conversation.

After around an hour, we began our final descent. We all grew a little uneasy when we dipped below building level without our landing in sight, but Peter furiously ran the flame to manage our height. We glided through the tree tops and Peter challenged us to pick some leaves, noting that ballooning was the only form of flight in which that was possible. He arranged our collection with the crew below, a dialogue my new best friend felt he had to relate back to his wife even though we could all hear it! He even misinterpreted the information, announcing that we’d overshot a park whereas we were simply landing on a different end. When Peter told Mika, “Sorry to make you run, but can you actually meet us down near the other basket?” my mate literally repeated to his wife, “Mika was gonna meet us back there, but now she’ll have to run to the other end.”

The crew member for each group has to grab the basket as it lands and act as ballast to its occupants, who are dragged along a little ways. The basket must be positioned to continue in momentum on only one side to suit the padding and handles in each compartment; The passengers lean back into the padding as the basket tips into a bunny-hop. Our balloon stayed fairly planted, but we did land with a particular thud. I personally found this a fun surprise but Pauline, a lovely lady of 62, hurt her knees on impact.

The pack-up process took as long as the set-up, Mika having to roll that ginormous balloon back into its significantly smaller hay bail sized bag. She had many hands to lighten the load, including those of my know-all friend and the tomboy with the torch, of course. Although help is appreciated and somewhat expected for this very physical task, Mika told of her crewmate’s experience when absolutely no one volunteered! I guess they weren’t in a hurry for breakfast.

 

Back at the hotel, I was first into the elevator as with the basket, and who else but my buddy sidled up to me, again?! I was smarter once we reached our table. His wife sat down first and I almost joined her, as is polite to do, but thought better of it and chose the other end of the table. My mate looked to sit opposite me (loved me, or just loved annoying me?) and I saw the disappointment when he had to join his wife.

After my very moody start, I hadn’t expected to enjoy breakfast with strangers but found myself in lovely company. Peter was once an inspiring actor, and may be yet, and discussed the theatre. He is semi-retired and now ‘only’ has 4 early mornings a week! Mika is from Switzerland and told us about skiing over untouched ‘powder’ snow, which is much more tricky and dangerous than the firm snow of Australia. Pauline is an adrenaline junky and went skydiving to face her fear of heights. Her next rush will be bungy jumping, which is something I’m too scared to try! Another lady in her 60s had recently had a heart attack but was youthful and spritely and hadn’t let it slow her down. Though cliché, Mika and I agreed with her philosophy that you can die any day and you can’t let fear stop you trying something ‘dangerous.’ Although amidst an older crowd, I began to realise that I was the tamest of the bunch.

A buffet breakfast was included with our experience and I took full advantage with my now ferocious appetite. I had bacon, eggs, sausage, tomato, mushroom, toast, a pancake, a danish and some bircher muesli, washing it all down with a glass of champagne.

I highly recommend ballooning for yourself or as a present. My voucher was through Adrenalin and the ballooning company was Picture This, who were very friendly and professional. I can guarantee you’ll feel sky high (ooh, dad-joke. I should be a pilot).