I had my doubts about M imposing ‘Day of Leisure’ on a Saturday. There was so much to do, and it seemed to me that it would be better to make Sunday a leisure day. Wrong. We got up and had a big banana porridge breakfast, endless tea, and then all got in the Humber-with-one-indicator with Oomoo behind on the trailer. We headed down to Toogoom (the best place in Hervey Bay, which will be trashed by developers very soon, and rendered irretrievably crap) and on to the bridge over Beelbi Creek, where we launched.

It was a beautiful day. We motored down to the fishing spot, where Rick, the guest, instantly caught a couple of mo-fo bream. Three minutes later, the tide turned, and there were no more bites! We persevered for a bit, but then continued exploring. Our path blocked by a fallen tree across the creek, we tied up and had another sustained fishing attempt, while my Dad disappeared, catlike, into the surrounding jungle (via the logs).

Meanwhile, we continued to try and catch fish. Finally, with great stealth and daring, I hooked another big bream, while Rick pulled in another one a few minutes later. One big fish each seemed to be quite perfect, so we put the next one that I caught back into the creek, and began motoring back toward the car bridge. We took Oomoo ashore and headed into Toogoom proper - settling down with chips and beer at the pub (where the food has gone downhill in the past six months, but the chips are still safe, though oily). I had two stubbies of VB in shandy form, as I was designated driver. After a short walk around to the beach to say goodbye to our favourite swimming spot, I engaged in some trepidacious trailer-backing, and we took off in the direction of home.

Rick, enthused by his Grand Day Out, insisted on stopping to buy a couple of bottles of white wine, and a bottle of whiskey (a recipe for next-morning hell, in my humble opinion). We continued on towards home, but I was getting anxious. The Humber now had only one headlight and no indicators at all. At the pinnacle of bad timing, as I drove toward our turnoff, a police car came out of a side street and settled in behind me. As I’d passed him as he was waiting to turn, he’d had a good view of my headlight-uno. He let me sweat for about four minutes as he trailed me, before putting on his lights. Dad, M and Rick all gave me varying instructions, while I gripped the wheel - the only thought in my head being
‘How do I pull over without indicating?! Goddamnit and bugger.’
M, who can’t help himself, was instructing me how to behave. I was trying to ignore him, while internally freaking out about the two stubbies of VB I’d drunk just an hour or so ago.
The policeman came to the door…
“D’you know you’ve only got one headlight?”
“Yes,” I squeaked, softly. Too softly.
“Sorry?”
“Yes. I realised back at the supermarket. I tried my high beams, but they’re gone too. I think it’s a fuse. I can fix them when I get home…”
“Right. Can I see your license please.”
It wasn’t a question. I fumbled with my purse and handed it to him. He noted my Victorian plates and address.
“You living up here?”
“I’m leaving for Melbourne on Monday,” I said truthfully.
He unwrapped a breathalyzer thingy.
“Have you had anything to drink today?”
My stomach dropped.
“Ah, I had a few drinks at lunchtime.”
This was when M, beside me in the passenger seat, decided to ‘lighten the moment’.
“I bet she’s at about .016!”
I heard small thudding sounds as my Dad and Rick simultaneously hit him surreptitiously in the back of the head.
“Just blow into this until I tell you stop.”
I blew. It beeped. He examined the results. I sweated, trying to remember to breathe.
“When did you say you had those drinks?”
Oh god.
“Over lunch.”
“Must have been a late lunch…”
“Well, yeah. Probably around two thirty, three o’clock? Why? Am I over?”
A pause. The Humber was still.
“Nah. You’re .018 - make sure you get that headlight fixed.”
“Thank you,” I squeaked, trying to sound even more freaked out than I actually was, in an effort to excuse what I was about to do…
I pulled out and had to instantly turn left down the road towards home. Of course, I couldn’t indicate, and had to just hope that he thought I was a blonde, scared Victorian who was too flustered to remember such minor details.

In the car, once we’d got around the corner without incident, we all breathed a collective sigh of relief, and M got some bollocking about his attempts to bond with the policeman. The drive home was further fraught with lack of indicators (and the fact I was pulling a trailer didn’t help either). Finally we made it home - where I had a large glass of white wine, to stop my quaking. M cooked up the fish like the gourmet he is, and we feasted our way through fish, rice and salad. I stuck with the rest of the Coopers, while the others (particularly M and Rick) quaffed white wine and whiskey in equal quantities. Ugh. Both of them paid the next morning.