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Sunday, December 13, 2015

Romantic Picnic Fail

Scotto and I went for a swim and a romantic picnic at a local waterhole called Alligator Creek, yesterday. We haven't been on a romantic picnic for years. 

I had visions of water droplets cascading from my transcendent, sleek body and shaking them off as he watched the crystal dewdrops splatter gloriously from my tanned and non-cellulite ridden thighs as I performed a non-awkward, triple pirouette underneath the waterfall.

While it seems like asking for trouble to deliberately place ourselves within snapping distance of an alligator, I can assure you there aren’t any alligators there… plenty of those saltwater crocodile things, but thankfully no alligators.

When we arrived we discovered the creek and waterholes were completely dried up anyway. 

No cascading water Elle McPherson-type erotic scenes for me it seemed.

But in truth, I was more concerned about the deadly snakes in the area. Fortunately, the grass in the picnic grounds was so parched and dead it was really just dirt and you’d be able to spot an Eastern Brown slithering towards you from fifty metres away. Especially if he was wearing a hat (which he should have been on the sweltering 35 degree day). 

Even if the snake tried to camouflage himself with a hat, you’d be able to hear the crunching of desiccated leaves as he slithered… unless the snake had learned to make curlew noises to disguise the crackling of course. Then we’d be dead within five minutes of the bite, if he gave us a good one. 

Still, Eastern Browns are only the second deadliest snakes on land and the Inland Taipan, which is the deadliest snake, prefers to keep to itself so… meh. Eastern Brown is a loser.

We hadn’t been to Alligator Creek for ages because last time we went on a romantic picnic; Scotto was attacked by a goanna and savagely bitten on the finger. It was his own fault for trying to feed it a piece of marinated steak after I’d energetically pointed out the warning signs but as soon as Scotto gets a whiff of the bush, he starts thinking he's a cross between Steve Irwin and Bear Grylls and mistakenly believes he has an affinity with all creatures great and toothy.

Cooking without oil: I use my own urine instead.

I frantically reiterated my warnings about delusions of grandeur when we arrived at the creek and Scotto promised not to feed anything except me. 

Imagine his surprise when, as he was cooking some fat sausages on the barbecue, this little mongrel flew down and snatched a sausage off a plate then landed on a low branch smirking at us as if to say, 

“You never expected that from a merry, little, fudging kookaburra sitting in an old gum tree did you, ya bloody unsuspecting tourists?”.

The little mongrel's gloating didn’t last long though because another kookaburra swooped in and started a vicious pecking match over the sausage. Within seconds, a scrub turkey was in on the action and it was like a scene from a zombie movie where all the zombies are wearing feather boas and fighting over someone’s severed head. 

 It gave Scotto such a fright he burnt his hand on the barbecue.

The entire time we sat eating our lunch, we were conscious of two pairs of eyes boring holes in our skulls as we shovelled the sausage and bread down before Satan’s evil, winged creatures could snatch it from our hands. 

The scrub turkey malevolently circled our table as I wielded a blunt bread knife in its direction and reminded it of what the favourite poultry treat for the festive season is.

“Look!” I pointed at the sign on the picnic table. “We’re not allowed to give you anything, you bastards. Can't you read?"

There were no laughing kookaburras to be seen that day, just a couple of deranged, voracious feathered fiends with pointy beaks who wanted our lunch.

Mind you, it’s probably a good thing they didn’t laugh because legend has it, if you hear a kookaburra laugh it means someone in the vicinity is pregnant and we were the only people there that day... what with the lack of swimming facilities, murderous heat and fanatical, rabid wildlife running amok in the place.

I'll fudging take what I fudging want!

We slowly packed up the esky when we finished, keeping a cautious eye on the sadistic sentinels in the gum tree.

“When I give the signal, make a run for the car, Pinky,” Scotto hissed out of the corner of his mouth, trying not to alert the sinister bird life on what was about to go down.

He reminded me of Matt Damon in the Bourne Identity and I got a bit turned on to tell the truth.

Anyway, I almost tripped in the skirmish because my shoes were slippery with sweat and frightened slobber, but we managed to escape with our lives and drove away leaving a cloud of dust and two disappointed, psychotic birds in our wake.

I’d call that a romantic picnic fail, wouldn’t you?