I had to drive a whole 250km away from the city for our little holiday. I know, so far. It’s so far that if we were in horse drawn carriages we wouldn’t have bothered, not without stopping at inns for a couple nights and buying many boredom bonnets. We would also have quite blistered bottoms. But I digress…
As soon as I leave my 10km radius of city-comfort-zone I find myself driving through small town after small town. Bloody small towns. You know what happens in small towns? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Well, the occasional Peeping Tom, but mostly it’s just bored people drinking at the pub. Some of them have peanuts vans. Wooo.
They don’t sell the right petrol – and don’t feel bad about inconveniencing premium seeking travellers, and they still expect you to stop and support their economy, or at least slow down and not cause accidents. Really, if they want me to stick to 60km/h after I’ve passed the last building in town, they need to make that section more interesting, or put big flashing 60 signs there to remind me. To me, bush=floor it.
You know who else is bored in small towns? The police.
The rule-enforcing Weasel absolutely loved this development. While he was writing up the ticket she was singing joyful songs about me paying all my money. I’ll just add that to the week’s rolling tally shall I? Petrol, emergency new car battery, oil, filter, more petrol + speeding ticket…traveling is fun!
*The policeman was right to book me. I am very naughty and contrite and will pay the great big fine. Did I mention I was selling ad spots to appear in my sidebar right there? —>