Crocodile Hunter

The reaction of non festy goers to the fact that a dance festival goes for four days is generally something like, "Four days? Bloody hell."

Thing is, there's a lot of chilling and wandering and resting and dumb arse conversations. Like when The Dreaded One and I wandered back to our camp site to chill, and we were drinking and the drivel thing was happening with me and I was being a little silly and being caught up in the whole I'm-so-tanned-and-barefoot-and-unshaven-and-with-my-almost-mowhawk-hairdo, and I was waffling on and happened to catch sight of my reflection in the car window and interupted myself to inform anyone who cared to listen, which was basically no one except The Dreaded One, "My God look at me. I'm looking all tough and macho 'n shit. I look just like a hippie... only way tougher than any goddamn hippie... I'm more like a... a sinewy and cunning... crocodile hunter."

The Dreaded One had been watching this earnest exchange with my car window reflection, and after a couple of moments of perplexed silence, she lost it big time. Nano seconds later I realised how silly I was, and I lost it too. For about ten minutes we just did that thing where you stumble about pointing at each other and how much you are laughing, and you wipe tears away and the laughter becomes more about the laughter than the twatty thing that started it, and your face and stomach hurt and you spill things and tip chairs over and passers-by smirk to themselves, and it was great.

I would like a laugh like that each week instead of every couple of years.

Then again, us leathery croc hunters find laughter a pretty shitty survival tool. So you know, whatever.