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Authors: Nick Spalding
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first sign of anything that may look even remotely reptilian. Living with dangerous creatures is just one part of living in this beautiful country, so I’d better get used to—
Oh fuck me, it moved.
It’s twenty minutes later. My arsehole has stopped twitching. It’s now hotter than the surface of the sun in the bedroom thanks to the fact I’ve closed the double doors, but better that than being eaten to bits by whatever that thing is out there. I’ll take a sleepless night over having no intestines any day of the week, thank you so very much.
LAURA’S DIARY
Thursday, January 12
While I have to confess that I’m glad Jamie got us out of Grant and Ellie’s and back into the Brisbane Metro hotel, I do wish he’d gone about it in a way that hadn’t made me out to be clinically insane. The problem with my husband is that he has no appreciation of the term overkill . He’ll have what amounts to a pretty good plan of action, and then he’ll ruin it by overdoing it when things don’t go according to plan.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, Mum.
First came the car.
“Did you sleep well?” Ellie asks brightly from the kitchen as the three of us shuffle in for breakfast. I’ve had less than three hours of sleep, Jamie only got two thanks to the run-in with his crocodile (which turned out to be a tree branch once the sun had come up), and Poppy now sports a bite the size of a golf ball in the middle of her head.
“Yes,” I lie through my teeth in a manner so British it’s quite pathetic.
“Lovely bed,” Jamie adds.
“Itchy!” is all Poppy can contribute.
“That looks like a nasty bite you got there, Poppy,” Grant says from where he’s making porridge at the kitchen counter. He goes over to a cupboard in the back wall and produces what looks like a jam jar full of liquidised frogs.
“Er, what’s that?” I ask.
“Mozzie remedy, Laura,” Grant replies. “My dad came up with it back when he was a ranger in the bush.”
Grant puts two fingers in the concoction, making a splurging noise as he does so. He bends down to address Poppy, who is now staring at his sludgy fingers like they’ve just transformed into lit sticks of dynamite. “Hold still there, Poppy,” Grant tells her and wipes the strange solution across her forehead.
Poppy’s face crumples briefly before she hesitantly opens both eyes again and looks up at me. “Tingles,” she says.
“Is it making the bite better, honey?” I ask.
Poppy thinks about this for a second before giving one emphatic nod of the head. “Yes Mummy.”
“There you go!” Grant hollers. “Home remedies are always better than the rubbish you get at the pharmo.”
That may be so, but pharmacy medicine doesn’t tend to leave you looking like the Incredible Hulk has just sneezed on you. Poppy seems quite happy, though. The sludge is above her nose, after all, so she can’t detect the aroma of decaying vegetable matter.
“Thanks,” I say to Grant, but I’m not sure I mean it.
“No worries. You Newmans want some brekko?”
I trust he means breakfast. “Yes please.”
Just don’t offer me anything from an old jam jar and we should be fine.
Breakfast turns out to be very pleasant. Grant rustles up some very tasty omelettes, and by the time I’ve finished my second cup of coffee I’m feeling almost human. Even Jamie is looking quite perky, though he has had four cups of coffee by the time he finishes his omelette. This will no doubt leave him needing the toilet every fifteen minutes, but at least he’s got a smile on his face.
Poppy’s frog poultice has gone yellow around the edges and now smells like the centre of London, but she’s not scratching at the bite so we’ll take that as a win.
“What are you guys up to today?” Ellie asks from over her cup of ginseng.
“We’re buying a car!” Jamie says with unconcealed joy. Men, for some reason, always find car hunting an enjoyable pursuit. They may sulk and moan
Oh fuck me, it moved.
It’s twenty minutes later. My arsehole has stopped twitching. It’s now hotter than the surface of the sun in the bedroom thanks to the fact I’ve closed the double doors, but better that than being eaten to bits by whatever that thing is out there. I’ll take a sleepless night over having no intestines any day of the week, thank you so very much.
LAURA’S DIARY
Thursday, January 12
While I have to confess that I’m glad Jamie got us out of Grant and Ellie’s and back into the Brisbane Metro hotel, I do wish he’d gone about it in a way that hadn’t made me out to be clinically insane. The problem with my husband is that he has no appreciation of the term overkill . He’ll have what amounts to a pretty good plan of action, and then he’ll ruin it by overdoing it when things don’t go according to plan.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, Mum.
First came the car.
“Did you sleep well?” Ellie asks brightly from the kitchen as the three of us shuffle in for breakfast. I’ve had less than three hours of sleep, Jamie only got two thanks to the run-in with his crocodile (which turned out to be a tree branch once the sun had come up), and Poppy now sports a bite the size of a golf ball in the middle of her head.
“Yes,” I lie through my teeth in a manner so British it’s quite pathetic.
“Lovely bed,” Jamie adds.
“Itchy!” is all Poppy can contribute.
“That looks like a nasty bite you got there, Poppy,” Grant says from where he’s making porridge at the kitchen counter. He goes over to a cupboard in the back wall and produces what looks like a jam jar full of liquidised frogs.
“Er, what’s that?” I ask.
“Mozzie remedy, Laura,” Grant replies. “My dad came up with it back when he was a ranger in the bush.”
Grant puts two fingers in the concoction, making a splurging noise as he does so. He bends down to address Poppy, who is now staring at his sludgy fingers like they’ve just transformed into lit sticks of dynamite. “Hold still there, Poppy,” Grant tells her and wipes the strange solution across her forehead.
Poppy’s face crumples briefly before she hesitantly opens both eyes again and looks up at me. “Tingles,” she says.
“Is it making the bite better, honey?” I ask.
Poppy thinks about this for a second before giving one emphatic nod of the head. “Yes Mummy.”
“There you go!” Grant hollers. “Home remedies are always better than the rubbish you get at the pharmo.”
That may be so, but pharmacy medicine doesn’t tend to leave you looking like the Incredible Hulk has just sneezed on you. Poppy seems quite happy, though. The sludge is above her nose, after all, so she can’t detect the aroma of decaying vegetable matter.
“Thanks,” I say to Grant, but I’m not sure I mean it.
“No worries. You Newmans want some brekko?”
I trust he means breakfast. “Yes please.”
Just don’t offer me anything from an old jam jar and we should be fine.
Breakfast turns out to be very pleasant. Grant rustles up some very tasty omelettes, and by the time I’ve finished my second cup of coffee I’m feeling almost human. Even Jamie is looking quite perky, though he has had four cups of coffee by the time he finishes his omelette. This will no doubt leave him needing the toilet every fifteen minutes, but at least he’s got a smile on his face.
Poppy’s frog poultice has gone yellow around the edges and now smells like the centre of London, but she’s not scratching at the bite so we’ll take that as a win.
“What are you guys up to today?” Ellie asks from over her cup of ginseng.
“We’re buying a car!” Jamie says with unconcealed joy. Men, for some reason, always find car hunting an enjoyable pursuit. They may sulk and moan
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