Monday, March 05, 2007


One day behind schedule, i land at Carnarvon International Airstrip. Oyster Creek appears below the plane as we descend. I must go out there and investigate those man-eating cod, i think. Left to their own devices in the inland ponds, after a research project went horribly wrong. Now the subject of much fear and trepidation. "Don't bring your dog," says Richard, the pearl oyster farmer who lives and works nearby. "If he falls in one of those ponds, he's done for. Reduced to bones in minutes."

I walk through the Passenger Terminal lean-to and collect my luggage. A Sherwood amplifier in a suitcase. It's 37 degrees. I lug the suitcase down the airport road and i'm home. The fridge is full of beer and roast pig, left over from Mickey T's weekend Pisces party. Glasses, bottles and cans adorn the front garden. There are half a dozen eskies on the front verandah. Assorted bottles of spirits are lie randomly about the house, abandoned at various stages of utilization. Two burnt 44 gallon drums, their tops sawn off at an angle, stand in the front yard, a mute testimony to the weekend's festivities. Strangely enough, they look very much like the yellow bins you might find in truckstops along the North West Coastal Highway. I discover we now have eleven pairs of barbecue tongs.

Mickey T is just leaving for Perth, to get his kite surfing instructor's ticket." I'll see you in a week," he says as he climbs into the Pajero with Mira the dog. "Knock yourself out." I take his advice, along with three Mersyndol and a couple of shots of O.P. rum.

The real world can wait until tomorrow.

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