Getting Away From It All

Even a well planned Break can go astray with the help of the footy club.

Getting Away From It All

When a long weekend approaches, it’s a chance to get away

From the bustle of the city, on a mini holiday;

So we packed our tent and traveled to a pretty outback scene

Where a river formed a billabong, all tranquil and serene.

There we set our little tent up, on a wide and grassy flat,

Gathered wood and lit a campfire, and on folding chairs we sat

With a feeling of contentment as we sipped a cup of tea,

And enjoyed the peace and quiet, and the lovely scenery.

With no radio or television, telephone or fax,

We were filled with deep contentment, we could feel ourselves relax,

Then we heard a distant rumbling, an avalanche of sound,

As a four wheel drive convoy reached our little camping ground.

There were cars with hordes of children. Everybody brought a dog,

And each car contained an esky, which was chock-a-block with grog;

And they set up camp around us, with a maximum of fuss,

Then a fellow from the nearest tent arrived to talk to us.

With a flourish of his tinny, he said, “Meet the football team!

This is where we come to camp each year, beside this little stream;

For the footy season’s coming, with the stresses that it brings,

So before it starts, we take a break, to get away from things.”

That’s the story that he told us, but I reckon he was wrong.

They were not escaping anything, they’d brought it all along!

For a mobile phone was ringing, and we heard the nearby blare

Of some awful techno music that they thought we’d like to share.

Then two trail bikes started whining, like a swarm of angry bees,

And the smell of hot exhaust fumes wafted gently on the breeze.

All the kids were so excited that they shouted in delight

As the bikies gave them joy rides till the day turned into night.

Then the racket ceased at dinner time, while everyone was fed,

And a blessed peace descended as the kids were sent to bed.

Then the night grew somewhat colder, and the moon rose in the sky

To be greeted by a howling like a wolf pack in full cry.

Some abusive words were shouted out, as if by megaphone,

And the dogs subsided, yelping, as a boot or two was thrown.

Then their owners started bellowing, in voices somewhat slurred,

As they sang some football ditties which we’d rather not have heard.

Just before I went to sleep, I took a necessary stroll

With a flashlight and a shovel, and my trusty toilet roll.

I took stock of my surroundings, saw some bushes on my right,

And was bending over digging when my rear was bathed in light.

Then an arrow whistled past me, I lost all desire to dig

As a voice yelled, “Sorry missus, I mistook you for a pig!”

Well, I must have looked peculiar, in bended over stance,

But I’ve never seen a porker dressed in purple tracksuit pants!

When I reached our tent, I tried to sleep, but couldn’t for the din,

And my watch was showing four o’clock before the team turned in.

It was only two hours later when the kids were all awake,

Kicking footballs so haphazardly our tent began to shake.

Then the trail bikes started roaring, to restore the status quo,

And my husband sighed and muttered, “Shall we just pack up and go?”

So I nodded in agreement, it was more than time we went,

For by now three dogs had piddled on the corner of our tent.

We had no desire for breakfast as we packed away our gear.

Then the footy team emerged, the worse for lack of sleep, and beer;

And I must admit to watching with a fair amount of glee

As they breakfasted on Panadol, washed down with cups of tea.

So we now prefer to camp where we can hear the sighing breeze,

And the twitter of the birdies as they flit among the trees.

When we get away from everything, we have no need to roam,

For we simply set our tent up in the garden of our home.

Veronica Weal