Null-a-bore

The Nullabor is long, flat, straight-ish, and short on verdant growth, but I have never found it boring. Punctuated every 200-odd km by roadhouses offering everything from fresh egg sandwiches and home-made baked goods, to what appears to be thrice-fried dim-sum, and a rotating population of itinerant and international staff (one sporting a bonzer hickey), I drop into each one just to see what treasure lies within. And perhaps to stop my mind wandering to such gripping topics as “why does every t-shirt I own have a hole in it just above the hemline and to the right of centre?”. At Balladonia, I grabbed a talking book, and the lovely man presented me with a souvenir pair of undies for my travel wine glass. Forging on, rainbow upon rainbow appeared through Simpsons clouds and I looked for the unicorn that would gallop alongside my vehicle at any moment.

Stopping for the night, I dutifully produced photo ID in the event I would ‘trash my room’, and repaired to my lodgings for the evening. As the sun set through the silicone holding my window together, I swear I heard my little wine glass whisper thanks for the modesty garment.