Tampons In The Daintree

Well it looks like The Herald is too scared to publish my letter. Nice to know that The Wrath Of Mee makes major newspapers pooh their nappies.

Actually I am kind of glad they didn't run that letter. It was pretty angry and I didn't include anything about how I do respect TC's knowledge of music, even if I always hope to get really pissed off with commentators who take themselves too seriously.

And speaking of tampons... the person behind the Piehole blog is one seriously funny writer. I am very impressed. Recently she posted something about getting her boy to carry her box of tampons to see just how far his devotion for her goes, and it reminded me of my own boy/tampon story.

Recently I have been getting back into running, and I've had a couple of flashbacks to when I was really hooked. Man, I was completely obssessed. Hard day at work, late finish in the middle of winter, bitterly cold outside? No problem; I'd change into my gear and head out. Crackling lightning and booming thunder? Even better - that kind of shit really got the juices flowing. For a while there I was racking up between 60 and 80 klometres a week.

Anyway, whilst holidaying in the Daintree Rainforest a few years ago, I started getting itchy for a run. It was an amazing place, a luxury eco-resort in the middle of the rainforest right on the coast. Frogs, bats, moths the size of bats, enormous wild boars trampling through the undergrowth, humidity that made you sweat if you thought about moving... God, I can still feel the moisture in the air.

So running was not the ideal activity. But I had that itch. Swimming in the pool was nice (beach was off limits that time of the year due to box jellyfish), but I wanted to cane myself over a few kilometres of road. I think I had been a little too obsessed and knew that telling The Dreaded One I was going to head off in 40 degree heat was going to sound silly, so I just fidgetted and sipped my poolside cocktail.

Until The Dreaded One gave me the excellent news that it was that time of month and she was out of tampons... Happy dance? Fuck yeah!

"It's cool. It's all under control," I reassured her as I leapt out of my deckchair to bolt up to our jungle bungalow to change. "There's a tampon shop ooh... three or four K up the road? I reckon I can be there and back in 25 minutes. 30 tops."

And off I headed.

I fucking loved that run. No traffic. Unbelievable heat. Swimming in perspiration. And it was the first run in days. I can still see the road, smell the air, hear my foot-fall and see the the enormous snakes moving off into the dry grass at the side of the road at my approach. Our bodies are meant to be pushed, and by Christ I pushed.

I arrived at the convenience store that was in the middle of nowhere, a tanned and sweating city freak (naturally I had pushed myself because it was a short run, and I wanted that endorphin hit baby), and the guy behind the counter looked a little surprised as I staggered through the rusty screen door.

"G'day mate. You all all right? What can I do you for?"

"Good. I'm good," I rasped. "Need Tampons."

He tried to look unphased, but I could see he was phased. He looked me up and down and said, "Tampons? We got tampons. Erm, you want regular or - "

"Those ones," I said, pointing at a box I recognised, still out of breath. "That box there. Gimme."

He asked if I wanted a bag. I said no. I paid him. He told me to have a good day. Still a little high from my exertions, I turned and opened the squeaky flyscreen door and headed off into the humid rainforest heat once more.