Bedding Down in Ballarat

It is a brisk Ballarat morning and damp with it.  As I pick my way through wet leaves to the Amenities block I have a waft of memory.  This is like boarding school in England.  The Ladies block is vast and empty.  I am sorry because it is always nice to meet other travelers and get their little tips. 

Despite three quilts it was just a bit cold last night and I am not displeased because it gives us a perfect excuse to go to Greswick Woolen Mills and get a blanket and who knows, a superior fleece to spin back in Sydney.  After all the Nullabor will be colder than this.

I am interested to note that our van behaviour is evolving.  We hardly ever crab past each other any more.  It is like being babies learning when to move and what the  best way is.  There are politenesses we have developed. We request help more of the other one instead of going and getting the needed thing.  What would be small courtesies like getting the milk out the fridge take on the weight of gallantry when they involve a lot of manouevering  to perform them.  There are now rules. The cook must never be crabbed past.  The way must be cleared  without fuss for the one needing the loo.

 The table provided a drama last night.  We’d had dinner (a nice sausage hotpot) with plenty of wine and the time had come to take up the table and put down the bed.  The table top came up easily but not the post that supported it.  Obdurate aluminium it was, and jiggled but would not yield.  Grant tried  and swore and threatened to get the tool kit out.  I tried.  We though of just leaving it there and sleeping either side like a sort of chastity measure but then we realized the sheet would have to tent over it like a bawdy postcard.  We tried more and it gave in .  I cried Eureka which was appropriate for Ballarat with its Stockade I thought.