Shear me a sheep Sheila!

The Guy has gone again.

Off into the desert for a good 10 days.

He is not supposed to have any cellphone signal this time. A bit daunting for stuck-at-home me. But thanks to the forces of rocks slicing into tyres and such, he has had to head back to civilisation and been able to tell me that he is alive.

The whole experience is very amusing. Or at least it should be, once he is done with it.

What gets me falling about in amusement the most is his luxuuurious accommodation; that of a Sheep Shearing Shed. A shed that is used once a year by sheep shearing Aussies, to shear their wild sheep.

I demanded that, to truly fit into the setting, he pack a couple singlets (vests), the tiniest tightest shorts he could squeeze into, those funny boots, and a slab (case) of VB (the local beer that’s supposedly as crap as Castle). And of course a cork hat. He refused. He packed his khaki.

The shack is slap-bang in the middle of the no-Outback-where. The closest folks are 10 kms away. The land resembles a slice of Karoo on a forty-degree day. They have no fridge. They’ve had to haul their own generator out there, which they realise burns all their fuel within a day. The other guy does not like to shower, use soap, use a towel, carry a sleeping bag, or eat meat. And they get to bed down with numerous spiders every night.

Along with the great living, the work has gone a bit pear-shaped. They have lost their areas of work. In the desert. They have resorted to buying spades to dig in the general ranges, hoping to land upon the right spots.

All in all, he is sitting in the desert questioning whether the money really is worth the nonsense. And I am sitting at home, on a couch that someone newly donated to us, having a good comfortable chuckle.