The sheer necessity of telling
A FEW years ago I went on a bizarre and excellent road trip with my two kids. The three of us jumped in the car and drove 310km north from our home town of Adelaide to the gritty industrial city of Port Augusta.
The road trip lasted less than two days and was framed around one unusual purpose — to visit the Australian Arid Lands Botanic Garden. To say the kids had zero interest in visiting a blazing hot garden comprised entirely of desert plants is a massive understatement. They thought the entire endeavour was absurd.
A seven-hour round trip, all to see a flowering eucalyptus macrocarpa.
We ended up having the time of our lives. Heaps of great stuff happened along the way. We saw a Loch Ness monster made out of used car tyres floating in a lake. I almost sat on a goanna that was sunning itself on a rock at a playground. We walked down a jetty that was 1.5km long. Best of all, we drove past an abandoned service station that had been taken over by an eccentric salesman. It had a large handwritten sign out front which read: “Blue swimmer crabs, stationery, cabbage soup, shoes”.
Three years on and that remarkable store is still a running gag in our family. I’m just popping down the shops, kids. No problems, dad, while you’re there can you get me some crabs and stationery and cabbage soup and shoes?
The best thing about this 30-hour holiday was that I was meant to be at work and didn’t go in. I pulled a sickie.
I was so fed up with my job at the time that I simply couldn’t be arsed going, so I