point and let it out in the bed', then crawl away from the wet patch. It was only an old rubber-foam mattress. It didn’t matter. I chucked it out when it started to stink too much. The old man gave me money for a new one when I told him a mate had burnt holes in it with a smoke.
The old man muttered something about what sort of mates go around trashing other people’s stuff, and I said he’s a bit sick in the head. He fell for it, just like he’d done that time we’d put all that grit along the skiing tracks. People coming down at full tilt, then they struck that grit and then they were really in the shit. You should’ve fucking seen ’em fly. Somebody seen us, but he couldn’t pin it on us. I said it was Ante. Ante said it was Kenu. Kenu said it was me, and we stuck to our story and didn’t change it, and all of a sudden they couldn’t pin it on us.
We’d thought about tying a fishing line across the slope. But ’cos of the height of people’s necks and the position they’re in and all that, the line would just hit them on the forehead or the chest. We’d talked about one of the roads that were popular with the moped boys. They’re going along at a nice speed, their height’s always about the same and they’ll never see that fishing line coming.
There’s stuff in the fridge, but nothing takes my fancy. The old man pays my shopping bills. The cashier’s got instructions not to sell me beer or smokes on credit. Sometimes I buy loads of packets of coffee. You can make a bit of easy money off them. But pushing coffee is just a pastime, and it’s not like I need the money. I don’t understand money. You need shit loads of it to make any real difference to your life. No matter how much you work, you’re still never going to have your own private jet.
I don’t care whether my flat has one room or two, so long as it don't leak inside. Too much space just causes you extra hassle. I’m fine in the spring when the sun stain arrives. I gather up all the empty burger cartons and pizza boxes and take ’em out to the bin. Things living in ’em.
It’s a while yet till the sun stain comes, and it makes me think of those two twats traipsing about in the back of fucking beyond in some fucking part of Aus-fucking-tralia. That’s where the sun is now, shining down on ’em, koalas and kangaroos all around. That’s where they ' ll be, frazzling their skin. The Princess and the fucking Peahead.
What the hell are they trying to prove?
SOUTH COAST TRACK, TASMANIA
Surprise Bay
Tuesday, March 2007
Jyrki
We’ve got the luxury of being here by ourselves. For the first night in my life, for kilometre after kilometre, there isn’t a single homo sapiens around that I haven’t chosen to be with.
Because of our extra stretch we’re almost a whole day ahead of our three colleagues travelling behind us.
Surprise Beach isn’t a sandy beach. It’s a promontory of steep cliffs covered with trees and bushes whipped by the wind. If you replaced the eucalyptus trees with gnarled pines and swapped the layer of thin grey-brown leaves for a mat of copper-coloured needles, this place would be almost like the Åland coastline.
Waves smash against the rocks below us. The wind is fairly strong. The white crests of waves can be seen flashing out to sea.
I find a good place for the tent, sheltered from the wind by the bushes to the south. Beside us there are a couple of fallen tree trunks that we can sit on. It’s already pretty late, so we divide up the work. I go and fetch water while she gets the tent ready for the night.
The brook is further down near the sands at the bottom of what looks like a set of stairs hewn into the rock face. It is a bit like South Cape Rivulet but much shallower and wider. I have to go a long way upstream before I find water that doesn’t taste of salt. The channel is so shallow that I wouldn’t be able to fill the Platypus without using the wombat bottle.
The bottle reminds me of
The old man muttered something about what sort of mates go around trashing other people’s stuff, and I said he’s a bit sick in the head. He fell for it, just like he’d done that time we’d put all that grit along the skiing tracks. People coming down at full tilt, then they struck that grit and then they were really in the shit. You should’ve fucking seen ’em fly. Somebody seen us, but he couldn’t pin it on us. I said it was Ante. Ante said it was Kenu. Kenu said it was me, and we stuck to our story and didn’t change it, and all of a sudden they couldn’t pin it on us.
We’d thought about tying a fishing line across the slope. But ’cos of the height of people’s necks and the position they’re in and all that, the line would just hit them on the forehead or the chest. We’d talked about one of the roads that were popular with the moped boys. They’re going along at a nice speed, their height’s always about the same and they’ll never see that fishing line coming.
There’s stuff in the fridge, but nothing takes my fancy. The old man pays my shopping bills. The cashier’s got instructions not to sell me beer or smokes on credit. Sometimes I buy loads of packets of coffee. You can make a bit of easy money off them. But pushing coffee is just a pastime, and it’s not like I need the money. I don’t understand money. You need shit loads of it to make any real difference to your life. No matter how much you work, you’re still never going to have your own private jet.
I don’t care whether my flat has one room or two, so long as it don't leak inside. Too much space just causes you extra hassle. I’m fine in the spring when the sun stain arrives. I gather up all the empty burger cartons and pizza boxes and take ’em out to the bin. Things living in ’em.
It’s a while yet till the sun stain comes, and it makes me think of those two twats traipsing about in the back of fucking beyond in some fucking part of Aus-fucking-tralia. That’s where the sun is now, shining down on ’em, koalas and kangaroos all around. That’s where they ' ll be, frazzling their skin. The Princess and the fucking Peahead.
What the hell are they trying to prove?
SOUTH COAST TRACK, TASMANIA
Surprise Bay
Tuesday, March 2007
Jyrki
We’ve got the luxury of being here by ourselves. For the first night in my life, for kilometre after kilometre, there isn’t a single homo sapiens around that I haven’t chosen to be with.
Because of our extra stretch we’re almost a whole day ahead of our three colleagues travelling behind us.
Surprise Beach isn’t a sandy beach. It’s a promontory of steep cliffs covered with trees and bushes whipped by the wind. If you replaced the eucalyptus trees with gnarled pines and swapped the layer of thin grey-brown leaves for a mat of copper-coloured needles, this place would be almost like the Åland coastline.
Waves smash against the rocks below us. The wind is fairly strong. The white crests of waves can be seen flashing out to sea.
I find a good place for the tent, sheltered from the wind by the bushes to the south. Beside us there are a couple of fallen tree trunks that we can sit on. It’s already pretty late, so we divide up the work. I go and fetch water while she gets the tent ready for the night.
The brook is further down near the sands at the bottom of what looks like a set of stairs hewn into the rock face. It is a bit like South Cape Rivulet but much shallower and wider. I have to go a long way upstream before I find water that doesn’t taste of salt. The channel is so shallow that I wouldn’t be able to fill the Platypus without using the wombat bottle.
The bottle reminds me of
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