Originally published in The Clifton Courier, August 29, 2018

“How was your weekend?” can be a big question.

Sure, I could answer with a perfunctory “good”, but I find myself unable to. I do so love telling people far too much information about my personal life.

But I also find myself unable to coherently form sentences at this time. I’m quite tired, I think I have hay fever and I’ve got a serious case of the yeah nahs. I’m just not up to writing a full, cohesive yarn for you.

But my sister had a ballgames carnival to celebrate a milestone birthday over the weekend, so of course I have stories.

And so I’ve decided to condense my two days of freedom into dot points. Given the sporting nature of the weekend, I suppose sticking to the highlights (and the not-so-high-highlights) is fitting.

And with that lazy introduction, I give you my peaks and troughs for the past weekend:

Peak: Sitting on the plane with an empty seat next to me minutes before take-off. I pictured myself sprawled out, sipping a beer and watching the clouds roll by in the kind of comfort you can only get from having 60cm more seat space than everyone else.

Trough: Watching the last bloke board the plane, barrel straight down the aisle and take his assigned seat… next to me.

Peak: The bloke sitting in what should have been my feet’s seat giving me his beer to take as a roadie, because he wasn’t much into beer these days. An empty seat would never have given me its beer.

Peak: Returning to the old Maguire house, where the homefire was literally kept burning.

Trough: Going to say hello to our emotionally-distant blue heeler Lady, but remembering she had passed on.

Peak: Dad turning on the “wireless”, which automatically started playing the Beaches soundtrack.

Peak: Finding unexplained red wine in the beer fridge.

Peak: Eventually going to bed, enveloped by the all-consuming darkness that I crave so desperately in my Sydney apartment (it’s much easier to sleep when you aren’t sleeping next to a block of flats fitted with security lights).

Peak: Pilton Valley bacon. Thick, salty and satisfying.

Trough: Not hearing a single Lee Kernaghan song on the radio the whole drive from Clifton to Toowoomba.

Peak: Being handed the coolest shirt I will ever own – a Hawaiian-style button-up with flamingos on it. I’m already planning on wearing it to work. Paired with a nice pencil skirt and the right attitude, I’m confident I can make corporate-flamingo a legitimate office look.

Peak: Stepping on to the ballgames paddock, ready to rumble.

Trough: Realising I’d completely forgotten how to play ball games – the easiest games in the world – and being faced with the reality that my brain is turning to room-temperature mush.

Peak: Hearing the story of a Great Great Uncle Gillam who might just be the loosest unit in history. As the story goes, old mate was bitten on the finger by a snake. I don’t recall which finger and I’m unsure of the snake, but I’m going to go with a death adder because it sounds the coolest. According to folklore he copped a bite, but refused to be taken down by some wimpy legless lizard, so he actually BIT HIS DAMN FINGER OFF. By all accounts, he lived to tell the tale. I mean, if you bit your own finger off after a snake bite, you’d want to bloody live – if for nothing else, to be able to tell that story at the pub.

Trough: Realising my I-broke-my-wrist-falling-off-a-horse-but-kept-riding-for-40-minutes-and-hosted-a-house-party-before-going-to-the-emgerency-room story is now significantly less cool by comparison.

Peak: The luxe barbecue buffet.

Trough: The washing up.

Trough: Hitting the inevitable day-drinking wall and being unable to muster the energy to push past it.

Peak: The suggestion of cups of tea and Spiceworld.

Trough: Realising I’d slept through my only chance of hearing the sound of rain on a corrugated iron in six months.

Trough: The sticky, sticky floor beneath the leaking mojito dispenser.

Trough: The glitter explosion in the bathroom.

Trough: The washing up.

Peak: Blueberry pancakes.

Trough: The washing up.

Trough: The first round of goodbyes.

Peak: My little sister’s unwanted airport potato wedges.

Trough: The second goodbyes.

Trough: The aircraft being fully-functional and not needing to be grounded overnight for unexplained repairs.

Trough: The final goodbyes, communicated via over-exaggerated arm movements from a distance. It’s those last few steps towards the plane that really kick you in the guts, making you feel like you’ll be melancholy for months. It’s a stinging feeling you know only something truly, profoundly joyful will counteract. And when you’re being herded on to a jam-packed shuttle taking you back to Stinktown, you can’t really picture anything strong enough lift your heavy heart.

Peak: The in-flight bickies.