Once More, In the Desert.

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My sleeping self, by switching off my alarm and then hitting the snooze button three times, inferred pretty damn clearly this morning that it's done with work.
Which is nice, because its my last week.

Of course, as much as I fantasise about missing the plane to work, my inner honesty stops me every time. Furthermore, I knew missing it on my last swing would leave me W I D E open to the level of sniggering my erstwhile colleagues usually reserve for the times ‘Storm the skimpy’ is in town.

(An explanation for the non-Aussies: a ‘skimpy’ is a topless barmaid. Slather them in vegemite and you’d have something dinky di enough to open the next Sydney Olympics. Unfortunately for me, one of the regulars at the local pub goes by the stage name of Storm. Even worse, the advertising for her visits is in the form of a dirty great big sign at the turnoff into camp, ensuring everyone sees it and can give me shit for the next week about moonlighting. Ha ha.)

Now if it was the alarms fault I would’ve punished it, but I could hardly throw myself against the wall in fit of chagrin. Instead, as the words “it’s 5 o’clock” (the time we would normally leave for the airport) registered on my sleep addled brain, I sat bolt upright, swore profusely and made an ungainly leap for the shower. Leaving the boyo laughing in my wake and asking for a slow motion replay.

Desperate to avoid any unnecessary piss-taking in the upcoming week - which surely would be bad enough with my unholy impatience to depart the country - I was ready AND packed before he'd finished drying the mirth tears from his eyes. It was a new getting ready record (13 minutes, very impressive no?), and it wasn't the last for the day.

So caught up in last minute additions to the ‘list to end all lists’, pestering the boyo about taking his malaria pills and straining myself to remember what I couldn’t (as it turns out, a piece of paperwork vital to my visa application…) we were at the airport before I could say ‘but I don’t want to go back’. Which is an outstanding improvement on my normal every-two-minute average.

You see, zero hour has come; the boyo is flying to Ghana tonight and though I’m still 10 days away from departure, I’m stuck in the desert once more, leaving minus time to deal with those last few (26….) items on the list stubbornly avoiding ticks.

I won’t see the curly headed one till I stumble out of an Ghanaian tro-tro on the other side. It’s only 12 days - I won’t pine - but I do remain resentful his adventure begins before mine.

12 days, 12 days. Dear God let it be quick.

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