I’m hopeless at sleeping at other people’s houses … All those strange noises and unfamiliar pillows and having to share a bed with a seven-year-old with really itchy eczema …
So I decided to take a crude, over-the-counter elephant tranquilizer-style sleeping pill on the last night of my far north coast sojourn.
Because the problem with the crude, over-the-counter elephant tranquilisers is they not only knock me out for the night, they bludgeon me for the next day too.
Not ideal when your husband is expecting you to share the eight-hour drive home.
So when we pulled into a petrol station to refill and it was my turn behind the wheel, I grabbed a 500ml can of Mother to get me through.
A few sips and I was bouncing off the walls but, as I swigged the final dregs, I was suddenly beyond desperate to do a wee.
The Pacific Highway chose that moment to announce it was 45km to the next rest area. I drove gamely onwards thinking surely a roadhouse would miraculously appear …
As the minutes ground on I became increasingly nervous about my ability to skitter into the Ladies – even if one did spring oasis-like on the roadside – without wetting my pants.
Pretty soon things got beyond desperate. I pulled off the highway into a side road that turned out to be the beginnings of a new housing estate. Bizarre placement in the middle of freaking nowhere, but fortunate. At the beginning of the street was a swanky show home, at the end was a big, bushy hedge with a fancy plaque featuring the estate’s name.
Regular readers familiar with a blog called The Wee Tree might have an inkling of what happened next…
I roared up beside the hedge and dashed from the car, flung up my skirt and was frantically pulling down my Reg Grundys when I noticed a sign at eye level warning that the site was under 24-hour video surveillance.
I looked upwards and sure enough there was a camera on a pole above my head.
Eeek. I pulled up my Reg Grundys and did a don’t wee dance while frantically assessing my options … and deciding there weren’t any … and pulling down my Reg Grundys again, letting out a luxuriant sigh of relief along with a torrent of wee.
Husband was cacking himself (with laughter) when I slouched back to the car (praying my wet ankles were the result of swishing through damp grass, not poor aim).
I’m a bit nervous now … Do you think there will be ramifications? Or just guffaws from the security guards who watch the footage?
PS Happy Australia Day!