Not quite The Odyssey

So ... the Coffs Harbour trip. One of my triumphs, I think. The final 3 hours of the drive north was completed in the dark, no heater, sandwiched between 2 semis going at faster than light speed on the nation's one-lane 'Route One.' The official designation of the temperature was somewhere between 'colder than a witch's tit' (apologies to any witches reading this) and 'fuck me it's cold'.

At the hotel we were upgraded to largest but coldest hotel room in the universe. Suffer the ignominy of having to phone desk for instructions on heater operation. "Push the button on the remote" was received with something approaching a state of grace. Don't even think about asking about the room-service lasagne. It originated in some far-flung quadrant of the space/time continuum.

Day 2: almost a fight at conference (recalled happy NUS days). Discovered a flat tyre on Transit van only after trying to waddle out of the car park. A porter called Robert gave immaculate performance of the customer is always right during the 45 minutes he lay under the van. Oh yes, and the pasta at lunch may have been the most ghastly meal I've ever encountered ... made me think of the primordial soup from before the Big Bang.

Day 3: we'll skip over the paralysed bowel problem. Is there an entry in The Guinness Book of Records for the largest number of enemas deployed in the service of one human being?

Day 3 (part 2): after fixing the tyre in town we found a hospital with an on-duty physio to see if we could fix my trapezius (BIG muscle that covers your shoulder blade and among other things holds your head on). Kris, the physio, managed not to laugh when I said I'd be driving to Sydney next day. Missed the conference, which means (thank God) I escaped its pasta.

Day 4: tried to drive south. Got as far as the Big Banana, stopping twice because of pain. That'll be twice in 700 metres. The 525 kilometres to Sydney certainly seemed like a big ask at that moment. By the way, I don't do pain very well. You know those black and white Movies where plucky Brits only give name, rank and serial number? Not me. I'd give them the plans, the home addresses of the plotters, my grandmother and my children if I had any.

Day 4 (part 2): phoned fellow-delegate Alison who was about to board Rex plane - elastic band and Biggles at the controls. So instead of enjoying tiny little packet of un-openable cashew nuts and an early morning G&T, she got to drive me for 500k shouting "serial number? Take my first born!"

Days 5, 6 and 7: off work, in bed, unable to transfer, can't drive, can't push my chair. I can, however, whistle Dixie. Neitzche famously observed "that which does not destroy us makes us strong" The trouble is he was a mad German masochist (apologies to any mad German masochists reading this.). 

There, better now. Got THAT off my chest.