Mike Dixon

David kept going.
„Stop!‟ Tim grabbed the wheel. „You gotta see it.‟
„I think we should find a campsite first.‟
„There‟s time for that later.‟
„You shouldn‟t drink any more, Tim.‟
„Mate! You‟re beginning to sound like your old lady.‟
It was a reference to David‟s mother and struck a raw
nerve. Against his better judgment, he stopped and gazed
through a tropical heat haze while Tim delivered a discourse
on his army adventures in the Far North.
„We‟d been bush for over two weeks. We were with this
major who was a bloody fanatic about survival skills. He didn‟t
even let us have matches. We had to use the lenses on
our scopes to light fires. And we didn‟t have rations. They‟d
sent us out without any tucker. We had to find it for our-
selves. We had these cards. They were like playing cards.
They had a picture of a plant on one side and on the back
you were told about its nutritional properties and how to prepare
it …‟
David had heard the story many times. Usually it involved
a chance encounter with a group of Swedish girls with back-
packs or something equally unbelievable. On this occasion
the ending was different.
„We got back to
Cooktown. We‟d on-
ly had possum piss
and dew to drink for
two days. Then, we
found this pub.‟
„What pub?‟
„This one, of course!‟
Tim threw open the
door and leapt out.
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