A little over a year ago I was working out of a beach shack in Goa and hastily decided to dash back to Australia to ride out the emerging pandemic. Sure, I’m a bit of a risk taker, but it just wasn’t practical to risk staying there on the visa I had. I had to leave and come back within a couple of months, but who would take me, and would India let me back in? Some thought I was too hasty and should stay.
As a precaution, I decided Rob and I would be all packed and stay at that same Holiday Inn by the airport to make sure we didn’t have a repeat of either my trip over, or the Thailand debacle (responsible for me now travelling on a 12 month temporary passport issued in Bangkok without the appropriate visas in it). The best way I can describe Rob in a sentence is a fine looking English hippy who was completely useless to travel with despite being a seasoned traveller.
Last night I went with three male friends, two of whom wish to remain anonymous but all in our 40s and 50s, to work out our daddy issues on a pole in a free, 30-minute pole dancing lesson in the outskirts of suburban Brisbane, Australia. How did this happen?
Well hello! Things got pretty dark pretty quickly and some new, fierce gusts of cold wind and rain started shoving me towards the water. Huh. Okaaaaaay. This is a bit of a change of tempo...