23rd November 2015
The big Brisbane trip has started. An early taxi and too much luggage – (I thought it was important that I brought Trivial Pursuit in addition to practically my entire running wardrobe and some books of which 1 is hardback. Oh, and the stuff for Mishel’s sister. And just quietly, I’ve started reading the book I’m supposed to be delivering!?! OOPS. I really like it).
We had a good flight down from Whyalla. Which was a good thing. And could have gone either way with the boy who hates flying. But we knew we had lounge passes for Adelaide, and we knew the lounge had a pancake machine. There was MUCH focusing on pancakes before 8am on Saturday morning and it got us through the flight with an unprecedented level of calm. Hoorah.
Then the lure of the Ripcurl shop was too strong, so I accompanied my mini fashionisto (is that the male version, like bello is to bella?) to peruse the wares. 2 T-shirts later (“take it out of my birthday money” was the cry – which incidentally all went to his new bike – but I was still on high over not being covered in puke, so I went with it).
And then we headed off to get pancakes. 🙂
Only the Qantas fashion police were waiting. And I was refused entry!!! Oh the horror. In an attempt to restore a sense of business as opposed to bogan, (the new frequent flying class are all miners) there is now a dress code and I wasn’t suitably aligned. I was wearing Birkenstocks, and thongs are against the rules. They are classified as beachwear.
Now this is highly unfair, particularly to anyone travelling from Whyalla. Because we don’t know the difference between smart and casual. Daggy takes us everywhere.
But I didn’t get verbal. (After all, the pancake machine was still on the inside, and the alternative was 5 hours hanging around on the outside in the wider Adelaide airport with a boy who had been deprived. Of pancakes). The Fashion Policewoman directed me to the chemist and told me to buy some ballet pumps, because apparently $15 plastic pumps are preferable to $150 leather sandals. Which is what I did. Because pancakes.
Pancakes were had, and a cappuccino (not as good as Pete’s “fluffy lattes” available only in Whyalla) and a little sleep. All was well.
Until I woke up to have my eyes accosted by a young woman’s bum cheeks protruding from the bottom of her playsuit. Which apparently wasn’t beachwear.
And no, it wasn’t just the post-snooze bleariness. I double-checked. (And I’m pretty sure the miners sitting at the next table, who were prone to loudly punctuating their conversations with “FARK, FARK, FARK” would be back me up. They were definitely checking the situation out. I suspect for different reasons to me).
We got to Brisbane with no further hitches. As we flew in, the flight path took us over Thunderbird Island. I know the cover story is that the Grumpster has got a new job making stuff, but it hasn’t fooled me. I know that he has been recruited as a Thunderbird, and that’s why he has to go and work on an island everyday. Herbert and I have rechristened it “Marky’s island”, and when we went to collect our car, we shouted “Thunderbirds are go!” as we drove onto it, because we didn’t have security passes and wanted to let them know we were friends not foes. (It’s actually a promontory, rather than a bona fide island, but let’s gloss over that). As I drove away, I wondered if I needed to let my hair colour go au naturelle (grey is nearly blonde, surely) and change the car for a pink soft top? Lady Joann-A.
I was delighted that the temperature had dropped. I’d secretly worried that as I stepped off the plane in QLD I’d immediately melt and be reduced to a puddle on the airport floor. People would stand around shaking their heads and pontificate that “humidity will do that”. But no. It was tolerable. Plus, my hair now has volume!
So here we are in this bustling big city. A far cry and a fair distance from Whyalla. Not as pretty as Adelaide (from what I’ve seen so far), but lovely all the same. And soon to be called home.
The adventure has begun, and with it a certain uncertainty draws closer – will we fit in? Just as my floral pants and thongs didn’t meet the mark for the Qantas lounge, will we be able to adapt, chameleon-like to the demands of Brisbane? Will we be acceptable to owners of rental properties with our country ways and wild furry beasts? Will all our furniture squash into a Queenslander (we have a lot)? Will we cope when we have to drive for more than 10 minutes to get where we want to be? Will running quieten my busy brain when the paths are less empty? Or will the noise let me find peace, and the throng deliver liberating anonymity?
I’m heading over to the coast – if you can call it a coast, maybe the bayside – to start the property hunt. I’m holding my nose, and about to take the plunge. Wish me luck.
Keep smiling. xx