I’m a fairly easy going type in most areas of my life. Friendships, my job, my role as a wife, housework, raising my babies, rules, and this also extends to the type of TV program I choose to watch on an evening after a hectic day. I use the term ‘choose to watch’ loosely, meaning Husband nearly always commandeers the remote and I get to choose nothing, which is why it is such a great asset that I am laid back. I’ve always had the ability to be able to switch on the TV and take interest in just about anything that happens to be on from vaginal lubrication adverts to a 50 year old Swedish film with subs already three quarters of the way through. So more frequently than I’d like, and on this night in particular, I find myself watching Gold Hunters on channel Dave because its one of Husbands favourites and although it falls into the same category as piss bag Ice road truckers, dead boring Deadliest Catch and Fucking Salvage Hunters with Drew Pissing Pritchard and his tiny little eyes, I’m trying to show an interest in his interests, in the interest of being a good wife even though it makes me want to shrivel up and die.
Australian Gold Hunters follow various couples, companies and families that have uprooted their entire lives, sold just about everything they own probably including their own children to move to the guts of Hell in the Ozzie outback in the name of having the opportunity to dig for gold.
I imagine it can become addictive once you find a chunk of treasure but I’d want to find nuggets the size of my head, not my little toe like is so often the case in these episodes. After hours of hard manual labour until the very life has been sucked from their very soul, and assuming they haven’t dropped dead from heat stroke, the only thing they have to look forward to is heading back to their shitty makeshift tent or caravan to enjoy an out of date tin of cold beans (because the tent or caravan has no power of course, it’s not a fortnight in the Hilton in Tenerife you know) and being at the mercy of the outback for a few terrifying hot sweaty hours through the night until day breaks and the whole charade begins again.
On a loop endlessly until they are found dead, dehydrated, sunburned and half eaten by a crocodile. Okay, I admit that bit has never been televised but it doesn’t mean it never happened.
Husband: I’d be great at gold hunting. I might go.
Me: It looks horrendous, and it’s in Australia.
Me: What about me and the children? You know, your family.
Hus: You can come too, to look after the caravan we would live in.
Me (cold disbelief): Seriously?
Hus: Of course you wouldn’t be there JUST to clean the caravan… you’d make dinner too.
Sometimes when he says ridiculous things like this to me I dare to think he might be joking, and sometimes, now and again he makes my day by actually smirking, laughing or giving me a playful nudge. This was absolutely not one of these times. He was completely serious and totally prepared to make us move to this devil’s bum hole halfway across the world.
Just to reiterate, FMAL.
2 thoughts on “The Devil’s Bum Hole”
Haha. I dated an Aussie Gold Mining Geologist when I lived in Perth. Never did bring the bling home. I came back to the UK. I don’t do tents. Or outback. Taught there for a week. Hospitalised for gastro. Nah mate!
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Sensible move. If I go AWOL off the grid without a trace at least you’ll know what’s happened.
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