Mr. Bond

Motel rooms in outback Australia don’t have any need to refurbish. You have no choice but to stay there. There’s no competition. No alternative. You pay the extortionate price for a run-down room or freeze to death in your van. At least the room is warm.

The manager of the roadhouse seemed surprised when we asked for a room. We caught her off guard. She danced around for a minute, back and forth, thinking about which room might be ready. There were no other patrons, so, surely, they were all ready? She kindly escorted us to our room and gave us the tour...

“Television. Heater. Bathroom.”

There was a fancy-looking menu that didn’t match the establishment. Daph was sure the Scotch Fillet steak and chardonnay were probably not available. We had our cauliflower soup anyhow.

Daph cranked the heater up to maximum and we warmed our cockles whilst watching re-runs of Friends and Seinfield. The road trains roared past like 747’s down a runway, shaking the foundations of the motel. But at least it was warm.

This morning, it is an icy two degrees, and we needed to set off early for the six-hour drive today. It’s hard to drag yourself out of the cocoon you’ve made inside the itchy beige blanket to get butt-naked for a shower. We are always grateful for a hot shower because it beats the alternative, especially with Daph’s sweaty cracks, but sometimes we think it might be better to just have a “Glasgow Shower.”[1]

Today, we may have found a winner for the “most uncomfortable shower” award. There have been a few front-runners in the competition whilst we’ve been on the road. But this one was a cut above the rest. It was the whole experience that gave this one the gold medal.

The bathroom was freezing, due to the open window that couldn’t be closed. The shower head was so rusty that the water sprayed out in every direction possible, so you got a spray in the eye no matter which way you looked. Then there was one hole in the centre of the shower head that was so calcified it narrowed the exit and increased the water pressure to dangerous levels. It was on par with a James Bond-esque laser beam that could slice you in two from your arsehole to high heaven. It couldn’t be avoided because its heat-seeking abilities followed you wherever you jumped to get out of its way.

Daph: “Do you expect me to shower in here?”

Ern: “No, Mr Bond. I expect you to die.”

The icing on the cake was the mouldy shower curtain. Due to the perfectly positioned extractor fan, it got sucked into the shower and wrapped around your body, causing an entanglement that messed with your deftness in darting out of the way of the laser beam.

Between fighting off the curtain and avoiding death by razor-sharp water jets, it wasn’t the most enjoyable experience. At least it was hot.

A difficult exercise in gratitude, we appreciated that we didn’t freeze to death overnight and that Daph’s post-cauliflower-soup-encrusted crevices are clean. Onwards to Norseman.

[1] A Glasgow Shower is not a shower at all, rather a quick spray of deodorant, and you’re done.