My Mama Didn't Raise No Fool!

Well, huh, see the thing is, my mother didn't actually raise me at all - certainly not past the age of five.

So there you go.

But the point is this: I've seen these weekends come and go before. I've seen them start with such high spirits and end with much moaning and groaning from the debauched and dishevelled. There is a tragic inevitability to the whole scenario that makes it hard to stomach. "Save yourselves!" I want to scream. "It's not too late to put down that delicious beer and spend the rest of the evening thoughtfully sipping water and quietly discussing Kierkegaard."

But I don't scream anything. I just shrug philosophically - Kierkegaard, remember - and turn away.

What I did this time was get away from the emerging debacle. I picked up Scarab from her house and we hit the road for Wave Rock. The trip started out well: Scarab yelling that I'd picked her up half an hour early and because of me hustling her out of the house she'd forgotten her camera and her best lipstick and she would never forgive me. NEVER!!!!! She's a great friend. We had a fantastic couple of days, cruising through the green and rolling countryside. Every time we passed a field of clover we'd burst out singing, "Crimson and clover, over and over..."

Don't you wish you'd been there?

And Wave Rock was great. They've even built a cement wall at the top! Cement beautifies everything.

We visited The Humps, Gnamma Hole, Mulka's Cave and Hippo's Yawn, and we harassed an echidna. It was all good stuff. But suddenly I find I can't be bothered writing about it here. I'm all worn out from our two day non-stop commentary on everything we were seeing:

"it's beautiful, I can't get over how green everything is, isn't this lovely, it's such a perfect day for a drive, it's so green and lovely, wow that's amazing, what an amazing place, isn't this greenery amazing, yes and lovely, and green, this drive is beautifully amazingly green...."

We called in at the Corrigin Dog Cemetery, which is a must-see for anyone trundling out that way. It's a small plot of land with rows of headstones, simple and ornate, neatly laid out in rows and lamenting the loss of the beloved family pet or workmate. It's part silly, part moving. Scarab couldn't get over the headstone that said, "See you when I get home."

When I got home on Sunday I think Grumpy nearly wept at the site of me. At first I thought it was because my hair was wind blown and it frightened him, but it was only because he and his last remaining mate, Big Julie, were too tired and emotional to even prepare food. And here I was, offering to cook dinner. Hells bells - how desperate were they?!

But the first thing he said to me, barely able to even blurt hello out first, was, "The Burp's broken her arm and had to have an operation!"