My friends had very kindly offered me the use of their family boat house for the weekend, so I wasn't too chuffed to wake on Saturday to pissing rain. After a swift reminder to myself that this is how most weekends start back home, we got on the road, radio blaring, drinking cold coffee (the others) and warm diet coke (me) and eating tim tams.
While I had been to Berowra many times before, this was the first occasion on which I would have to be 'the responsible adult'. I was determined to succeed, with none of my usual flustered fuck ups. Dropped the others off at the jetty with all the bags (at least the rain had let up at this point) and headed round to the marina to grab the boat. Here I fell at the first hurdle. I couldnt get through the gate. Vaguely remembering that I was meant to be using a fob, I started waving one of the many fobs on the keychain at everything in sight. Nothing. I then tried all the keys in the lock. A few fit, but refused to turn. I had just resorted to trying to bust the door open when someone opened it from the other side. He then pointed out, smirking rather too much for my liking, that the fob point was on the other wall to the one I had been looking at. In plain sight. Its red light blinked at me smugly. Glowering at it, I passed through and shut the door behind me.
Found the tinny and boarded. Successfully lowered the motor into the water. Untied one of the painters and left the other one looseish for me to easily cast off when I got the motor started. Big mistake. I jerked the pull cord back. Nothing. Tried again. Nada. Gave it a bit of choke. Still nothing. The pulling became more frantic. At this point the painter had clearly had enough and somehow I found myself floating towards the middle of the river with no idea how to get the boat under control. The very few people around looked on disinterested. My friends watched nonchalantly from the jetty.
Thank god an old man took pity on me and came over to lend a hand. Soon we were pulling away - me desperately trying to cling to what shreds of dignity I had left, and heading for the house. The rest of the afternoon was lovely, with lots of food, sitting in the suddenly appearing sun on the veranda, playing cards, and trying to get the fire lit without the help of such useful things as firelighters. As it turns out, there definitely can be lots of smoke without fire.
Headed back across the water to meet some more friends at the pub for the Lions game in the evening. Surrounded by Wallabies supporters, we tried to keep a vaguely low profile - not helped by three of us ordering kids meals, which attracted hateful glances from the waitresses and surrounding children alike when we asked if we could have our free icecream...! In fact, the kids present were a pain in the arse - constantly coming over and berating us for having a bottle of ketchup on our table, because "Daddy says its meant to stay on the counter". One look at Daddy's stony face, grotesque tats and large gut and we returned the ketchup...
The game was great, with Australia starting off convincingly strong despite 3 players being stretchered off. Unfortunately one was their kicker which was to have disastrous consequences. With England 1 point ahead in the final minute, the Wallabies were awarded a penalty. We were convinced it was all over, slumped over our drinks. The poor guy (incidentally just out of rehab for alcoholism) then slipped and buggered the whole thing up. We cheered for a split second, before the usual British "oh god, do you think the poor guys alright?" kicked in. Not a nation that does winning well. Unfortunately the cheer was enough to piss off the surrounding Aussies. The evil glares got darker and less subtle. Despite the support of the Irish girls on the next door table (not interested in the game, but had been drinking wine from the bottle for some time now...) we beat a hasty retreat.
Headed back down the hill and piled into the boat. It was now wet and very dark, two small headtorches not achieving much apart from making their owners look like crazed miners. Luckily there were no incidents of people falling out of the boat, as we headed back to the warmth of the house, which, judging by the pile of ashes, had had a roaring fire going as soon as we had left.
The rest of the weekend was an indulgent mish mash of eating, sleeping, drinking and playing games. (See the next blog for more on our epic rounds of Balderdash...) The rain barely let up from dawn on Sunday morning onwards. After only a couple of dodgy moments, such as a near collision with the ferry while searching for somewhere to moor the boat, we made it back to the other side of the river with all our bags vaguely dry and intact, piled into the borrowed cars (excellent insurance system) and limped off through the torrential downpour back to Sydney. And were home in time for the Block! (Anyone would think I had planned it...)
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(This did not happen... nor did this)
While I had been to Berowra many times before, this was the first occasion on which I would have to be 'the responsible adult'. I was determined to succeed, with none of my usual flustered fuck ups. Dropped the others off at the jetty with all the bags (at least the rain had let up at this point) and headed round to the marina to grab the boat. Here I fell at the first hurdle. I couldnt get through the gate. Vaguely remembering that I was meant to be using a fob, I started waving one of the many fobs on the keychain at everything in sight. Nothing. I then tried all the keys in the lock. A few fit, but refused to turn. I had just resorted to trying to bust the door open when someone opened it from the other side. He then pointed out, smirking rather too much for my liking, that the fob point was on the other wall to the one I had been looking at. In plain sight. Its red light blinked at me smugly. Glowering at it, I passed through and shut the door behind me.
Found the tinny and boarded. Successfully lowered the motor into the water. Untied one of the painters and left the other one looseish for me to easily cast off when I got the motor started. Big mistake. I jerked the pull cord back. Nothing. Tried again. Nada. Gave it a bit of choke. Still nothing. The pulling became more frantic. At this point the painter had clearly had enough and somehow I found myself floating towards the middle of the river with no idea how to get the boat under control. The very few people around looked on disinterested. My friends watched nonchalantly from the jetty.
Thank god an old man took pity on me and came over to lend a hand. Soon we were pulling away - me desperately trying to cling to what shreds of dignity I had left, and heading for the house. The rest of the afternoon was lovely, with lots of food, sitting in the suddenly appearing sun on the veranda, playing cards, and trying to get the fire lit without the help of such useful things as firelighters. As it turns out, there definitely can be lots of smoke without fire.
Headed back across the water to meet some more friends at the pub for the Lions game in the evening. Surrounded by Wallabies supporters, we tried to keep a vaguely low profile - not helped by three of us ordering kids meals, which attracted hateful glances from the waitresses and surrounding children alike when we asked if we could have our free icecream...! In fact, the kids present were a pain in the arse - constantly coming over and berating us for having a bottle of ketchup on our table, because "Daddy says its meant to stay on the counter". One look at Daddy's stony face, grotesque tats and large gut and we returned the ketchup...
The game was great, with Australia starting off convincingly strong despite 3 players being stretchered off. Unfortunately one was their kicker which was to have disastrous consequences. With England 1 point ahead in the final minute, the Wallabies were awarded a penalty. We were convinced it was all over, slumped over our drinks. The poor guy (incidentally just out of rehab for alcoholism) then slipped and buggered the whole thing up. We cheered for a split second, before the usual British "oh god, do you think the poor guys alright?" kicked in. Not a nation that does winning well. Unfortunately the cheer was enough to piss off the surrounding Aussies. The evil glares got darker and less subtle. Despite the support of the Irish girls on the next door table (not interested in the game, but had been drinking wine from the bottle for some time now...) we beat a hasty retreat.
Headed back down the hill and piled into the boat. It was now wet and very dark, two small headtorches not achieving much apart from making their owners look like crazed miners. Luckily there were no incidents of people falling out of the boat, as we headed back to the warmth of the house, which, judging by the pile of ashes, had had a roaring fire going as soon as we had left.
The rest of the weekend was an indulgent mish mash of eating, sleeping, drinking and playing games. (See the next blog for more on our epic rounds of Balderdash...) The rain barely let up from dawn on Sunday morning onwards. After only a couple of dodgy moments, such as a near collision with the ferry while searching for somewhere to moor the boat, we made it back to the other side of the river with all our bags vaguely dry and intact, piled into the borrowed cars (excellent insurance system) and limped off through the torrential downpour back to Sydney. And were home in time for the Block! (Anyone would think I had planned it...)
(This did not happen... nor did this)
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