The next few posts will be a disappointment for people who like photos with their text. While I was in south-east Queensland, I directed my energy towards spending time with my wonderful and extensive family. I'm not really comfortable taking photos when I'm catching up with people. It takes you out of the moment and puts you at risk of being punched in the berries if they're camera-shy. Plus they'd all get mobbed by Australia's Next Top Model if I put any of their mugshots online. So I'm sorry, but all you're getting out of me for the moment is text.
*lonely cricket chirping*
I stayed with Nick for several days, while he and his girlfriend Eb went about their daily working lives. I would normally feel awkward being the unemployed bum mooching off two hard working people, but I'd had plenty of time to get used to it while LT was ill.
Nick works in finance and, as far as I can tell, loves it like mad. He's always had an interest in money, particularly in the area of directing as much of it as possible to his wallet. In his job as an adviser, the more money he makes for his clients, the more he earns for himself, so he gets to be both an altruist and filthy rich. It's the perfect job for a bloke who's always had a natural rapport with people (and their money).
One day, while he was at work, I put a load of laundry on in his crazy cyborg washing machine that plays music (no joke!). When it was done, I had to empty the drier to make way for my stuff. Instead of the usual conglomerate of apparel, what I pulled out, in astonishing quantity, were underpants. Thousands of underpants, maybe millions - all male, all Nick's. As armful followed armful, I began to fear I would suffocate under the steadily-growing swamp of elasticised bum ornaments. My only option was to start folding them as fast as I could and stem the rising tide. Several hours later, I was done and I knew something about Nick I had never suspected: he has never thrown out a pair of jocks since leaving home.
A highlight of this stay in Brisbane was visiting the Stuart family - my aunt and uncle and their three children. They're a most unique family unit: adventurous, principled and generous in everything. Wade, Maxine and Clay - the kids - span the spectrum of talent from the pure creative to the artfully practical, making an evening's chat with them great entertainment. Aunty Rob treated us all to a gigantic chicken dinner, dessert and cups of tea along the way. Too full to move, I accepted Wade's offer to sleep over in the house he's renovating. All went well until the next morning, when I found the back door locked and a note asking me to leave via the front. Fine, I thought, but there isn't a door at the front! After a moment's confusion, I found a door after all, hidden behind a new wall that I had to slide behind to get out.
I couldn't stick around long, because I'd arranged a lunchtime rendezvous with Mr Khoo, a friend from my college days. Cooee is a unique and beautiful snowflake in my landscape of friends. He is the Instigator; the Maker of Mischief - a man whose creative medium is life itself. He is an uplifting, confronting, hilarious and sometimes dangerous man to be around. I love him like a fat kid loves cake.
I rode into town without showering or brushing my teeth, since I hadn't brought any toiletries to the Stuart's place. This went poorly with the searing sunshine that sent my armpits into overdrive and the Rev into fits of coughing as he got too hot. In fact, as I rode, I realised he was starting to sound decidedly ill. By the time I reached the Valley, he was cutting out in traffic and turning the trip into a nightmare. Things didn't improve once I met up with Cooee and rode with him to West End for a vegetarian feast at the Hare Krishna restaurant. The Rev cut out at the worst possible times: in the middle of a roundabout; approaching an intersection and just after Cooee, who was riding lead, took a turn. It was a smelly, intensely frustrated Timmy who sat down to his kofta balls and rice that day.
It was a happy, if brief, reunion though. Mr Khoo was preparing for a triathlon and, more importantly, his imminent departure to Italy for a tour of discovery and enlightenment. There was much to talk about, so we arranged to meet for longer the following week.
My uncle Sean and his partner Kylie live on the south side of Brisbane in a house that they are painstakingly renovating. At the end of the week, Nick, Eb and I went out to dinner with them at one of their favourite local restaurants. We had a great time chewing the fat about life, work and toys while we enjoyed a cracking meal under the watchful leer of the extremely camp manager. Seeing as I was the only single person at the table, I was the lucky one who enjoyed his repeated caressing of my shoulder when he topped up my drinks. After tea, we toured the renovations at Sean and Kylie's place and I drooled over his beautiful new Husky TE-510 dirt bike. It was a monster!
Next day, Nick and Eb were going to Maryborough - our birthplace - to visit the parents and Alex, our younger brother. Because I live an idiotic distance from Maryborough, seeing the whole family at once is a rare treat, so I raced Nick up the highway to spend a weekend with the folks. Luckily, the Rev held together for the three hour trip. I beat Nick, despite stopping on the way to buy two pairs of underpants. It stopped me from feeling quite so under-endowed in the tighty whitey department, but I knew I would never come close to his truly epic collection of jocks. I suppose some people are just naturally gifted.
21 June 2010
16 June 2010
Back on Queensland soil
Today's map.
It was nearly lunchtime after I'd dealt with the snapped clutch lever, so I was back on the bike straight away, heading for a less crashy place to eat. That place, after a couple of dozen miles of beautiful scenery, was Nimbin.
A faded sign, just out of town, boasts that Nimbin was home to the 1973 Aquarius Festival. Almost nothing, it seems, has changed in the town since then. The people in the main street - stoners, hippies (overwhelmingly unemployed), the mentally ill, wandering children and dogs - look as lost and faded as the festival billboard itself. Cannabis passes for culture here; a shallow, smoky and dismal shared futility. The only clean buildings are the police station and the drug abuse outreach centre. Everything else is a confused pastiche of New Age symbology, folk art and simple filth.
In deference to what good there was in town - the alternative power company, working artists and genuine seekers of truth - I ordered a tofu burger for lunch. It was surprisingly good, making a mockery of my own flaccid and tasteless attempts to cook with the stuff.
I filled my prescription at the local chemist (yes folks, I bought drugs in Nimbin) and went to leave, but my bike was parked in by a delivery truck. I wandered around some more and talked to three people. One of them asked me for money. The second offered me weed. The third told me the times the police sniffer dogs come by and offered to help me hide my stash. I explained I wasn't carrying and he went on a rant about police suppressing freedom anyway. By then, the truck had moved and I was free to get the hell out of there.
The next hour or so was spent pottering north through the pretty countryside and crossing the border into Queensland. The road surfaces improved immediately, so I enjoyed gently swooping through smooth corners as I came out of the hills behind the Gold Coast. In planning to arrive at Nick's place that afternoon, my brain had conveniently neglected to consider traffic once I was back on the highway. The five 'o' clock rush was in full swing, so the eight lanes of the Pacific Motorway had become 110km/h destruction derby. Nearing Brisvegas, this rapidly became an 80km/h event, then 30km/h, then a going-nowhere-and-overheating contest.
Unprepared for the gridlock, my bladder began to fill with great rivers of impending urine. With my waterworks expanding like the universe after the Big Bang, my mission in life very quickly became finding a way to wee. Simply flopping out my junk and blasting away in public seemed a touch rude, but the crawling cars almost made it a necessity until, shining over the treetops, an beacon of hope shone forth in yellow and blue.
It was IKEA.
I raced in, disobeying all the carpark speed limits along the way. With relief so close, my pee tank issued its warnings of imminent rupture even more frantically. I spoke to it internally, reassuring it that the time was almost at hand, if it would just hold out a little longer.
How cruel reality can be when judging the nature of a decision, though. Inside the store - one of the largest in the southern hemisphere - I became lost. There were hectares of bathroom fittings, but not a single plumbed loo in sight. Toilet roll holders mocked me as I searched, weeping, with my fingers still in my ears after being assaulted by a display of miniature fountains. For nearly ten minutes I wandered in circles, ready to go in a reasonably capacious vase if I managed to find one, before I found it: a single staff toilet under a small black and white sign. I unloaded with such force that I swear I bent the urinal.
It was nearly lunchtime after I'd dealt with the snapped clutch lever, so I was back on the bike straight away, heading for a less crashy place to eat. That place, after a couple of dozen miles of beautiful scenery, was Nimbin.
Nimbin is a freakin' hole.
Be careful asking for a pot at the Nimbin Hotel.
A faded sign, just out of town, boasts that Nimbin was home to the 1973 Aquarius Festival. Almost nothing, it seems, has changed in the town since then. The people in the main street - stoners, hippies (overwhelmingly unemployed), the mentally ill, wandering children and dogs - look as lost and faded as the festival billboard itself. Cannabis passes for culture here; a shallow, smoky and dismal shared futility. The only clean buildings are the police station and the drug abuse outreach centre. Everything else is a confused pastiche of New Age symbology, folk art and simple filth.
In deference to what good there was in town - the alternative power company, working artists and genuine seekers of truth - I ordered a tofu burger for lunch. It was surprisingly good, making a mockery of my own flaccid and tasteless attempts to cook with the stuff.
Tofu done right.
The next hour or so was spent pottering north through the pretty countryside and crossing the border into Queensland. The road surfaces improved immediately, so I enjoyed gently swooping through smooth corners as I came out of the hills behind the Gold Coast. In planning to arrive at Nick's place that afternoon, my brain had conveniently neglected to consider traffic once I was back on the highway. The five 'o' clock rush was in full swing, so the eight lanes of the Pacific Motorway had become 110km/h destruction derby. Nearing Brisvegas, this rapidly became an 80km/h event, then 30km/h, then a going-nowhere-and-overheating contest.
Unprepared for the gridlock, my bladder began to fill with great rivers of impending urine. With my waterworks expanding like the universe after the Big Bang, my mission in life very quickly became finding a way to wee. Simply flopping out my junk and blasting away in public seemed a touch rude, but the crawling cars almost made it a necessity until, shining over the treetops, an beacon of hope shone forth in yellow and blue.
It was IKEA.
I raced in, disobeying all the carpark speed limits along the way. With relief so close, my pee tank issued its warnings of imminent rupture even more frantically. I spoke to it internally, reassuring it that the time was almost at hand, if it would just hold out a little longer.
How cruel reality can be when judging the nature of a decision, though. Inside the store - one of the largest in the southern hemisphere - I became lost. There were hectares of bathroom fittings, but not a single plumbed loo in sight. Toilet roll holders mocked me as I searched, weeping, with my fingers still in my ears after being assaulted by a display of miniature fountains. For nearly ten minutes I wandered in circles, ready to go in a reasonably capacious vase if I managed to find one, before I found it: a single staff toilet under a small black and white sign. I unloaded with such force that I swear I bent the urinal.
IPeeAhh.
Apart from getting lost in the dark because, as usual, I had only the vaguest idea where my brother lived, I made it to his place without further bodily crises. I was grateful for his and girlfriend Eb's warm welcome, not to mention his fusion cooking prowess in making pizzas out of spaghetti mince. We chatted and watched the wrongest and most hilarious movie ever, then I sank into the most beautiful bed in all of bedly creation. Happy times.
09 June 2010
The Rev takes a dump
It rained on and off during the night, mostly when I was trying to get between the tent and somewhere else. Weirdly, the morning after was the first to gift me a dry tent, so breaking camp was quicker than usual. I was bound for Queensland - my brother's house in Brisbane - for the night.
Before catching up with my bro, though, there was the small matter of choosing a suitably tortuous route through the hinterland and across the border. I have driven the Pacific Hwy across the border only a handful of times, but they were enough to convince me to find another way. On Ez's advice, my first stop was in Byron Bay.
I don't think I've ever been to Byron, so it existed in my head as a simple jumble of adjectives like 'chilled', 'green' and 'unemployed'. It didn't take much snooping around to add 'brain-haemorrhagingly beautiful' to the list, amongst others. I parked the bike near the southern headland of the main beach, grabbed the camera and went exploring.
Following the track around the headland, I immediately regretted embarking on a hike in my motorcycle clobber. Kevlar-lined jeans, knee pads, tall black boots and the morning sun do not mix well with steep walking tracks. Oh well. It's tough looking cool.
The next beach along was also beautiful; aided greatly by the quantity of naked breast-meat spread liberally over it. For my moral safety, I kept the camera at the wide end of the zoom range here.
Another sweaty hillclimb later, I was at the easternmost point of the Australian mainland. I forget what it's called, but it's probably Cape Eastylots or It's All West From Here Point.
So overheated that a Japanese tour group mistook me for the Shinto god of perspiration (the offerings were lovely, but unnecessary), I called the exploration quits and retraced my steps to the bike.
The road bent inland and I followed it to Lismore (home of the Lizmorons, according to Ez). It was my first visit to her home town. It was also the first time I've ever lost control of the Rev.
Rolling down the main street, dehydrated and looking for something to drink, I came upon the scene of a recent traffic accident. A small four wheel drive was marooned unhappily on the kerb with its front wheels jutting outward at sick angles. Bystanders paused to offer help to the distressed driver on his mobile phone. Taken by all this, I failed to register an equally distracted driver reversing out of a car park right in front of me. Easing on the brakes, I came to a safe halt and moved to put my foot down to steady the bike.
The road wasn't there.
Caught out by the steep camber of the street, I pedalled on air for a frantic second before the Rev - all 250 loaded kilos of him - gracefully subsided onto the bitumen for a short nap. When a bike leans past its balancing 'point of no return', there's only one thing you can do: swear loudly and let go. I did.
The bags took the worst of the impact, but poor Reverend suffered a snapped clutch lever in the fall. My injuries were limited to my ego, having just treated the accident-gawpers to a second, if less violent, episode of mechanical ineptitude.
I needed some time to calm down and plan how to deal this little setback. With the help of two other blokes, I picked the Rev up and parked him out of further harm's way. Using my laptop at a coffee shop across the road, I nearly wept with joy when a Google search for Honda dealers in Lismore delivered a result. A little phone-work and fifteen dollars later, I had a replacement lever in my hand. Thanks Ongmac Honda; you rock!
It took no longer than to finish my takeaway cup of bean gravy to get the new lever installed. I was grinning like an idiot. I had made impromptu repairs to a motorcycle on the road. My ego was restored: at last, I had truly become a man!
Before catching up with my bro, though, there was the small matter of choosing a suitably tortuous route through the hinterland and across the border. I have driven the Pacific Hwy across the border only a handful of times, but they were enough to convince me to find another way. On Ez's advice, my first stop was in Byron Bay.
I don't think I've ever been to Byron, so it existed in my head as a simple jumble of adjectives like 'chilled', 'green' and 'unemployed'. It didn't take much snooping around to add 'brain-haemorrhagingly beautiful' to the list, amongst others. I parked the bike near the southern headland of the main beach, grabbed the camera and went exploring.
Following the track around the headland, I immediately regretted embarking on a hike in my motorcycle clobber. Kevlar-lined jeans, knee pads, tall black boots and the morning sun do not mix well with steep walking tracks. Oh well. It's tough looking cool.
The next beach along was also beautiful; aided greatly by the quantity of naked breast-meat spread liberally over it. For my moral safety, I kept the camera at the wide end of the zoom range here.
Another sweaty hillclimb later, I was at the easternmost point of the Australian mainland. I forget what it's called, but it's probably Cape Eastylots or It's All West From Here Point.
So overheated that a Japanese tour group mistook me for the Shinto god of perspiration (the offerings were lovely, but unnecessary), I called the exploration quits and retraced my steps to the bike.
The road bent inland and I followed it to Lismore (home of the Lizmorons, according to Ez). It was my first visit to her home town. It was also the first time I've ever lost control of the Rev.
Rolling down the main street, dehydrated and looking for something to drink, I came upon the scene of a recent traffic accident. A small four wheel drive was marooned unhappily on the kerb with its front wheels jutting outward at sick angles. Bystanders paused to offer help to the distressed driver on his mobile phone. Taken by all this, I failed to register an equally distracted driver reversing out of a car park right in front of me. Easing on the brakes, I came to a safe halt and moved to put my foot down to steady the bike.
The road wasn't there.
Caught out by the steep camber of the street, I pedalled on air for a frantic second before the Rev - all 250 loaded kilos of him - gracefully subsided onto the bitumen for a short nap. When a bike leans past its balancing 'point of no return', there's only one thing you can do: swear loudly and let go. I did.
The bags took the worst of the impact, but poor Reverend suffered a snapped clutch lever in the fall. My injuries were limited to my ego, having just treated the accident-gawpers to a second, if less violent, episode of mechanical ineptitude.
I needed some time to calm down and plan how to deal this little setback. With the help of two other blokes, I picked the Rev up and parked him out of further harm's way. Using my laptop at a coffee shop across the road, I nearly wept with joy when a Google search for Honda dealers in Lismore delivered a result. A little phone-work and fifteen dollars later, I had a replacement lever in my hand. Thanks Ongmac Honda; you rock!
It took no longer than to finish my takeaway cup of bean gravy to get the new lever installed. I was grinning like an idiot. I had made impromptu repairs to a motorcycle on the road. My ego was restored: at last, I had truly become a man!
29 May 2010
Meeting Ez and Ev
Today's map.
The long weekend was over, the maniacs were off the roads and I had to get out of Wauchope. I'd spent three blissful nights there, relaxing and recovering. Now I had to get to Lennox Head, nearly 400km away, for a rendezvous with one of my bestest mates from Brisbane, Ez.
In the three years I worked as an engineer in Brisbane, Ez became one of my most trusted and revered friends. She, like me, was churning away in the private sector as a consultant, wielding her degrees in sociology and economics to very profitable (for her company, at least) effect. We both felt that we were working at jobs where our creative sides were somehow irrelevant to our roles; that procedures, politics and profit margins existing to crush our intellects instead of developing them. We marvelled at how complete, honest-to-goodness d**kheads landed managerial roles; how wide the gulf between marketing and reality could really be. (Do I sound like a petulant Gen Y'er? Sorry.)
Anyway, we shared our problems over cups of tea at our flats, via frustrated and hilarious emails, or by wandering through the discount shop in the Queen St Mall and laughing at all the mis-translated packaging from China. We hung out, talking all the time, buzzing and fizzing with stupid creativity until the pent-up frustration of the week had been eased. Ez, if you're listening, I don't think I can ever thank you enough for those days (and for still talking to me after I ditched my life in Queensland to see if the one I sought was in Tasmania).
With our history in mind, I was excited to get a chance to catch up on the last couple of months in our lives, so I pointed the Rev up the highway and rode like crazy. Starting at 7:30, I made Lennox in time for a late lunch at the pub. As promised, Ez's partner Evan came along to demolish pub grub and I was finally introduced to the bloke I'd heard so much about. His laidback humour seemed like the perfect foil to Ez's razor wit and, before our meals even arrived, we were all talking smack and laughing on the verandah together. It was brilliant.
With the pressure to arrive long gone and a steak sandwich mellowing in my stomach, exhaustion hit me like a sack of Chuck Norrises. Ez kindly took me to the shops to buy provisions, then gave me a guided tour while Ev had a surf. In the afternoon light, the rocky headland was beautiful. We watched the surfers and chatted animatedly as the sun sank. Lauren called me, freshly returned from her first CanTeen camp, and I caught up with her while we waited for Ev to finish surfing.
"It's one of the best things I've done in my life. Ever!" LT enthused.
Finally, she'd had the chance to meet people who'd been through what she had and just 'got it' when she told her story. I beamed and told Ez. It was a very happy piece of news from a girl who was initially pretty nervous about going to camp.
Ez had to travel back to Brisbane, ready for another week of work, so we said our goodbyes. Tired and happy, I set up my tent at the caravan park down the road in the last of the light. It had been an enormous and very beautiful day.
The long weekend was over, the maniacs were off the roads and I had to get out of Wauchope. I'd spent three blissful nights there, relaxing and recovering. Now I had to get to Lennox Head, nearly 400km away, for a rendezvous with one of my bestest mates from Brisbane, Ez.
In the three years I worked as an engineer in Brisbane, Ez became one of my most trusted and revered friends. She, like me, was churning away in the private sector as a consultant, wielding her degrees in sociology and economics to very profitable (for her company, at least) effect. We both felt that we were working at jobs where our creative sides were somehow irrelevant to our roles; that procedures, politics and profit margins existing to crush our intellects instead of developing them. We marvelled at how complete, honest-to-goodness d**kheads landed managerial roles; how wide the gulf between marketing and reality could really be. (Do I sound like a petulant Gen Y'er? Sorry.)
Anyway, we shared our problems over cups of tea at our flats, via frustrated and hilarious emails, or by wandering through the discount shop in the Queen St Mall and laughing at all the mis-translated packaging from China. We hung out, talking all the time, buzzing and fizzing with stupid creativity until the pent-up frustration of the week had been eased. Ez, if you're listening, I don't think I can ever thank you enough for those days (and for still talking to me after I ditched my life in Queensland to see if the one I sought was in Tasmania).
With our history in mind, I was excited to get a chance to catch up on the last couple of months in our lives, so I pointed the Rev up the highway and rode like crazy. Starting at 7:30, I made Lennox in time for a late lunch at the pub. As promised, Ez's partner Evan came along to demolish pub grub and I was finally introduced to the bloke I'd heard so much about. His laidback humour seemed like the perfect foil to Ez's razor wit and, before our meals even arrived, we were all talking smack and laughing on the verandah together. It was brilliant.
With the pressure to arrive long gone and a steak sandwich mellowing in my stomach, exhaustion hit me like a sack of Chuck Norrises. Ez kindly took me to the shops to buy provisions, then gave me a guided tour while Ev had a surf. In the afternoon light, the rocky headland was beautiful. We watched the surfers and chatted animatedly as the sun sank. Lauren called me, freshly returned from her first CanTeen camp, and I caught up with her while we waited for Ev to finish surfing.
"It's one of the best things I've done in my life. Ever!" LT enthused.
Finally, she'd had the chance to meet people who'd been through what she had and just 'got it' when she told her story. I beamed and told Ez. It was a very happy piece of news from a girl who was initially pretty nervous about going to camp.
Ez had to travel back to Brisbane, ready for another week of work, so we said our goodbyes. Tired and happy, I set up my tent at the caravan park down the road in the last of the light. It had been an enormous and very beautiful day.
27 May 2010
Lauren's Cancer Journey pt 2
Waiting to find out what (and where) Lauren's treatment would be was a frustrating time. Between us, we drank quite a bit of wine and watched too much TV while we waited. Maybe we were afraid of going outside in case of somebody running up and diagnosing LT with another illness. Maybe we just weren't really ready to deal with what our future could be. Either way, detaching the brain via TV and alcohol was a popular pastime.
In the end, the surgeon referred us to a local oncologist who was confident he could design a radiation-only (that is, no chemo) treatment plan for Lauren's cancer site. It was a great relief not to be sent to a far-flung capital city to be treated, but the relief faded quickly as we braced for another medical professional to enter the scene and demand consultations.
Something about his job as oncologist must have upset him, because he was morbidly obese. His face was an almost-perfect square, like it had been extruded upwards from between his shoulders, and he possessed no visible neck. His chins undulated gently as he spoke.
"What we're going to do is called hyper-fractionation, darling," he explained to Lauren. It meant having lots of small, high doses of radiation, rather than ones spaced a couple of weeks apart. In fact, he told us, LT would be getting blasted daily, starting January. The plan would run for seven weeks and, yes, there would be side effects. Thyroid damage, a sore throat, skin damage, hair loss, loss of taste sensation and nausea were likely, he said. These, it would later turn out, would be the tip of the iceberg (if icebergs were made of debilitating pain instead of water molecules).
It was still December and, having at last been given a timeframe for treatment, we planned a small holiday to Queensland in the intervening time. LT and I figured that if things were going to suck, we should build up some happy times to draw on. Plus, it beat the idea of sitting in front of the idiot box sucking cheap wine for five weeks.
In the end, the surgeon referred us to a local oncologist who was confident he could design a radiation-only (that is, no chemo) treatment plan for Lauren's cancer site. It was a great relief not to be sent to a far-flung capital city to be treated, but the relief faded quickly as we braced for another medical professional to enter the scene and demand consultations.
Something about his job as oncologist must have upset him, because he was morbidly obese. His face was an almost-perfect square, like it had been extruded upwards from between his shoulders, and he possessed no visible neck. His chins undulated gently as he spoke.
"What we're going to do is called hyper-fractionation, darling," he explained to Lauren. It meant having lots of small, high doses of radiation, rather than ones spaced a couple of weeks apart. In fact, he told us, LT would be getting blasted daily, starting January. The plan would run for seven weeks and, yes, there would be side effects. Thyroid damage, a sore throat, skin damage, hair loss, loss of taste sensation and nausea were likely, he said. These, it would later turn out, would be the tip of the iceberg (if icebergs were made of debilitating pain instead of water molecules).
It was still December and, having at last been given a timeframe for treatment, we planned a small holiday to Queensland in the intervening time. LT and I figured that if things were going to suck, we should build up some happy times to draw on. Plus, it beat the idea of sitting in front of the idiot box sucking cheap wine for five weeks.
2017, Sat 5 Dec 2009
Lauren had Christmas morning early today :-) She's drinking wine and playing with her shiny new iPod nano right now. Looks like a hit (thank goodness, as I keep getting technology sort of gifts instead of romantic type rubbish and I fear my luck will soon run out). She's singing like a retard, oh god.
Schedule for tomorrow: up at 0400; leave at 0445; away on the plane at 0600. Lose an hour switching to non-daylight saving and arrive, grumpy and tired on the Sunshine Coast at 1105. Whee! Can't wait to see the family :-D
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