A day by day account of a trolly dollys trip to Oz!
‘Please, can we go? Please?’ That’s my sister with her best whiny face on begging me to go to Australia.
‘Aw, God no. No. it’s too far. I can’t afford it. It’s not exactly Paris. No.’ That’s me point blank refusing to go.
So why do I find myself en route to Australia?
I have yet to work this out, but en route I am, with one very merry sister who is about to see her son for the first time in over two years. She owes me……big time! I’m not a reluctant traveller, I’m a trolly dolly . Cabin crew. Dragon with a wagon. Tart with a cart. Whatever you wanna call me. But the point is, on my holidays, the last thing I wanna do is get on a fecking plane! Let alone, two planes…..let alone for 24 bloody hours!
I go back to the original question. Why do I find myself en route to Australia? I put it down to bullying….and love …for both my sister, and for my lovely nephew (gingy, so named for his copper curls…let’s just say we’re not a family best known for our originality), who I also really want to see and who quite selfishly went on a backpacking holiday…and forgot to come home! ..but mostly, it’s simply sibling bullying. She knows I can get the tickets for a song…she knows I’m the only one who will put up with her snoring for two weeks…and she also knows that once I stop whinging I will love the whole experience.
So we are off!
You can follow this travel blog as we go,
I hope you enjoy it!
Getting there (part 1) – Day 1
Jo is like a jumping bean!
Its 7am and our flight isn’t until 8pm tonight. She’s fully packed, breakfasted and ready to go as I wander downstairs, bleary-eyed and slightly heavy- hearted.
My youngest is chomping through her Weetabix, transfixed on Cbeebies with no grasp on quite how long it’s going to be before she sees mummy again. I go over and hug her and she pushes me away smearing Weetabix across my forehead.
‘Gerroff mummy, I’m watching telly.’ Clearly not traumatised by my forthcoming trip then! The eldest spends the next hour clinging to me like Velcro though, and I feel justified in my tears when I finally wave them off to school….. But then the excitement kicks in and I relent.
Jo has asked for the last hour ‘Can we go? , Can we go?’ like a kid on a promise to the circus. We have to drive to the airport a two hour trip and she wants to experience Terminal five Do the shops. ALLLLL the shops she says. So off we go, five hours earlier than we need to and I’m not overly impressed. As with Planes, airports are my least favourite place to spend time in.
Light spots of rain dust the windscreen and she chats on about the trip, the kangaroos, seeing gingy, the koalas, seeing gingy, Sydney city tours, seeing gingy, Byron bay, seeing gingy. You get the picture. She’s a little animated! I’ve seen less twitchy cokeheads!
I need caffeine. And a shot of misery to settle her. So I pull into the services and make my way through the greyness of the motorway travellers for a pee and large bucket of tea to keep me going. I steer her away from the coffee for fear she will enter the stratosphere if she gets any more animated, then we trudge back through the now heavy drizzle and get back in the car.
Not ten minutes later we hit a jam and slow…then we slow a bit more…then finally come to a grinding halt.
‘Aw no’ she moans. ‘S’okay’ I say, ‘it’ll clear in a minute .It’s not like we’re gonna be late. We’ve got six hours!’
One junction. Four hours. That bucket of tea pressing hard on my bladder. One fully traumatised sister employing breathing exercises to stop the panic attack that’s threatening to suffocate both of us, a tempest of epic proportions raging outside and an overturned lorry that’s covering Both sides of the motorway. My lip chewed into mincemeat as I fight the urge to screech ‘I knew going to Oz was a bad fucking idea!’
Despite the cabbie from the carpark driving like a tortoise on Tramadol, the raging storm, the traffic jam, the Heathrow queues, the gritted teeth and nails chewed to down to the quick…we finally made it through security prepared to run like Olympians to the gate.
Then up there, flashing red, ‘Delayed’. Two hours…. And I take a deep breath and head to the bar for the first of many stiff drinks. Our journey to Oz has begun.