My Voyage to Yonder Graftonvale

That’s right, meagre readers (and by readers I mean myself later), today I travelled home from a place whence I had been staying since a little time ago.

Don’t expect this to make any sense. If my calculations are correct (and they probably aren’t), I have now been awake for like 20 million hours or something. Give or take twenty minutes or so.

The adventure begun with a hasty promise and near instantanious regret. My first wife, Lady Hallows did guilt-invite us to repast at her South of New Wales homestead some time ago, and like the fool I am in love, I agreed, so long as our chapperone, the honourable Lady Toffington, would accompany us for the sake of THE MOST HIGH PROPRIETY.


I break this momentarily to recount my present conversation.

Lady Kickson: Do you know anything about cinnamon?… How about Tumeric? Paprica? Bush Seasoning? Tuscan Spice?

Lady Toffington: Do you know anything about the four garden gnomes that are staring at me with their beady troll eyes? (approximation).

Bastards swapped our prized possessions when we were gone.


In continuation, on Saturday past we three wanderers did set out for Graftontown –


The present:

Lady Kickson: How do you feel about Ground Ginger?


And the four(youlyingbastards)hour trip thence passed somewhat uneventfully. I think we may have shouted ‘windmill’ a bit too oft for the comfort of our fellow car-less trainable companions. Also, I saw an alpaca and had a close spiritual insta-bond. I didn’t tell my intimate companions of this. The sudden infidenlity of spirit combined with the stress of travel may have broken their fragile, love-starved heart-penises. Sorry, did I say penis? Must have been a freudian penis. I mean – slip. Freudian slip-penis.

I hear they’re common in the Netherlands.

Speaking of penis, I ended up sharing a nightly platonic bed-related experience with Lady Toffington. I know, disappointing, right? All that effort to get Lady Hallows alone and I get Blanket-Hog Toffle-Town with her weird bendy legs that make angles a protractor can’t.

We made a cheesecake. By we, I mean Tofflepot, who turns out to have even more wife point thn we originally had room for in the wife points scale. Halopolis made an oriental delight for main course, which was served on a delightfully set table with fancy candles and bird of paradise napkin foldings.

I arranged a cheese platter. Don’t act like you’re not impressed. I’d show you a photo but I ain’t even bovvered.

We also went to the beach. I never feel more Australian than I do covered in goopy sun lotion, baring parts of you that the sun hasn’t seen since you were a kid who realised too late that maybe daggy undies weren’t formal enough for a picnic.

We got lost on the way. That also makes me feel like an Aussie. The sun was beating in through the back windsheild, the bridges were closed and we were on a river island with no obvious escape path and a dwindling petrol supply. “She’ll be right, mate” comes to mind in these situations. And she was all right, more than. ‘She’ was worth it.

We did a ceremonial sheepish disrobing and made our way down to the water. 10 seconds later:

Ladhee Toe-phee: I’m done. Are you done?

Ladhee Keek-sewn: I can’t feel my ankles. Can I put on pants now?

Soccer ensued. It snuck up on us in the form of Brian, the driftwood goalie. Brian, with his singlasses and vanilla coke. He promised us an even game! We were betrayed. He and his cousin Samuel (Also flimsy driftwood) proved to be no good as goalies whatsoever. We lost because I happened to be in my head at an opportune time, instead of being inside the moment. I had to find a way to regain my honour.

We explored the rock jetty. The path eventually degraded to a jumble of strangely shaped rocks. The waves  rushed in from the gaps below and spray jetted up from the sides. We went down, almost inside, and heard the echoes of the waves reverberate in the half cavern. The splatter of the little waterfalls and the ever-increasing feeling that I, Lady Kickson, was Pocohontas in a former life. There are photographs of me gazing out into the waves from atop a rock, as if singing wistfully to windy colours. As usual when one tries to impersonate an animated native American beauty goddess, the results are underwhelming.

Hilarity ensued the entire week, culminating in this sleeplessness. The 2am train left our station at ten to 3. First class my left buttcheek. I spent most of it on the floor with the bags, trying to catch a comfortable position by surprise and pin it down. The train squealed like rusty tin-man, and the woman behind us was no stranger to sleep-induced nasal noise.

I am home.

Brisbane. River city, pretty city. Better than any other nonsense cities with their tourists and their fancy dutch theatres.

I live in a brick box. It’s not very pretty but it’s mine, and I’m pretty darn attached to it.

I drank coffee. I have a research essay due in a week.

All I want to do is write about this amazing trip and about how above all, it just made me realise how much I have going for me in this little brick box.

Besides, it’s way easier to get Halo alone when her mum isn’t around. She’s got wife points too, you know.

And they ain’t for cookin’.

I may need sleep.




UPDATE: Cummin Seeds.




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4 responses to “My Voyage to Yonder Graftonvale

  1. Sir Knightman of Dezna

    Might I just say, this seems like a trip most worthwhile. Also, protractors: HA! Brilliant!

  2. Aimee

    Woo! Another Post of Brilliance! Also, I have a present for you. Come get it. And you and your girls can come cook for me like you promised.

  3. On behalf of myself and the other bastard I’m not a bit sorry we swapped your prized possessions.

    P.S. “trying to catch a comfortable position by surprise” is on par with “crisp as a brandy snap”

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