Easter Camping Trip

As I lay on the precipice of my under inflated camping mattress, not quite warm, pillow hijacked by the toddler, I became aware of a sound in the distance. A high pitched whine of engines.

In my midnight delirium I thought, "The fucking bogans are out riding their dirt bikes in the dark."

It was audible beyond the moans of my diarrhoea stricken husband, beyond the rowdy singing of the group of drunken campers on the other side of the dried up creek bed. The creek bed just behind our tent where lay the rotting sheep carcass. The sheep carcass which lay just beyond the large communal garbage bins, the bins which which were situated just next to our tent and the pool of vomit my son had produced earlier.

I quietly congratulated myself on the ideal location of our tent.

Morning found me feeling decidedly nauseous and upon my first journey to the toilet block, I heard the damned engine sound again. All was revealed, the fucking bogans hadn't been riding their dirt bikes in the dark, they were playing video games.

It was supposed to be a bush camping trip. It was supposed to have included such things as campfires, quiet, bush sounds and feelings of bonhomie or at the very least bonmothernaturie. It was supposed to be fun. It wasn't supposed to have included gastro. I couldn't even eat my Easter chocolate.