The Prop awoke at about 0300 hrs to find water at every point of the compass. The boisterous seas encountered off Devonport had by now subsided and, as the Prop's wife sagely observed, "Its all plain sailing now."
And indeed it was.
Disembaking at 0650 hours it was still completely dark. As the Prop navigated "the Rig" through the darkened shiny-wet streets of Melbourne he was reminded of his salad days when it was commonplace for him to find himself driving home in the early hours well and truly hammered after a long night on the fizz.
Happily, the Prop took little or no fizz on board, so everyhtibng was OK.
The Prop dutifully obeyed the instructions barked at him by the brand new giant sized GPS machine on the dashboard and, at length, left the metropolis that is greater Melbourne. Ass he did so, legion upon legion of commuting motorists poured into the city from the opposite direction, the seemiingly endless traiin of their glittereing headlights resembling some aimless giant serpent that had become lost in the dark. Little pre-school aged children were dropped off at day-care in the dark, hours before they should even have been out of bed. But for them, this is presumably everyday life.
Arrived at Lakes Entrance about 1300 hours and booked into the local footy oval which doubles as a rather Bohemian camping facility. One star facilities but with 5 star views.
Resisting the urge to sleep, the Prop undertook some routine Rig maintenance and made some very welcome imrovements in the on-board karsi. The Prop would have liked to have provided photographic evidence of said improvements but the Prop's wife says that she does not want pics of her thunderbox on the electric internet.
Who am I to argue?
Ended the day having a few beers with a local Billy Connolly impersonator and his bald agent who revealed to his client that he has been taking an extra 7% for last 15 years. The client took it suurprisingly well quipping that "17% of fuck all is still fuck all!"
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