Don't get dumped in Boorowa

If there is one thing this weekend has taught me it is don't get dumped in  Boorowa. Or perhaps more generally, think very carefully about who you get a lift to a 21st with. 

21sts in the country are always excellent, partly because being in a paddock, everyone can get decidedly loose. Plus everyone is going to crash there. It's like a big giant alcohol fueled co-ed sleepover under the stars. And then there is the road trip. I love a good road trip, which given that I am prone to motion sickness says a lot. Perhaps it is a subconscious recognition that it is the journey not the destination or whatever, but the road trip is always an excellent addition to the party proper. 

This weekend my brother Terible and his friend Stoz got a lift to a 21st in the country from an acquaintance. According to all reports (theirs), the trip up was pleasant and banter filled. They nicknamed their driver "Scrappy" and thought it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. All was going splendidly, until the next morning.

They awoke to yelling, directed at them. Scrappy, it seems, could not fit the swag in her car. 

Stoz told her not to worry, they would walk back. Terible thought they were joking. She took him at his word. And so they walked. To the Boorowa pub. Where they discovered that there was no public transport, and not a great deal of potentially hitchhiking opportunities. Perhaps one of the locals they met during their sojourn put it best upon hearing their tale when he said 'so she gave you a lift here? But she's not taking you back? I just don't understand mate. It doesn't make any sense'.