Tow Bar

We're planning a camping getaway to Yorkes and intending to take the hounds. We took a trip up to Wilmington in October - sans dogs - and could barely fit all the baby paraphernalia into the station wagon, despite my prodigious packing skills and use of the roof rack.

Knickers and I decided we would need to borrow her father's trailer; which meant we needed a tow bar.

This raised a higher level of excitement in me than the idea of a bit of steel bolted to a car chassis should reasonably elicit. Another sign of impending middle age I suppose. Moreover, the potential damage I could cause parallel parking - considering my propensity for low speed impacts - is a real concern.

But after ringing round I decided on a place at Richmond. It was going to take an hour to install, which meant a whole hour I would get to sit and read a book; on my own; during the day. This alone was worth the $280. Which will, incidentally, just about double the value of the car.

Then Knickers had to go and bake a cake.

'I'm hopping on the treadmill, would you please check it when the alarm goes, and take it out of the oven if it's cooked?'

Simple enough, but I had to go and complicate it. I had to use my initiative. I mean I can cook, it's not that difficult, so surely I can bake?

The alarm went and I skewered the cake. Hmm, still a little underdone, I'll give it another five minutes. (Now here you're probably thinking that I went on to burn it. Oh no, no sirree, not me) After five minutes I decided it was surely baked, so there was really no need to check it. Then some flash of memory triggered in the part of my brain that I really have to learn to ignore.

'You need to cool the cake Rob,' it flashed.

I considered this, and it made sense. I had a cooling rack and a hot cake. Made for each other like unicycles and trips to emergency.

I upended the cake tin a few inches above the rack and gave it a bit of a thump.

Splurk

Viscous batter surrounded by a skin of cake cascaded onto the benchtop like so much roadkill.

Knickers was not impressed, and for my sins I had to take the Noodle with me to get the tow bar.

'An hour at Richmond? He'll go mental.'
'I don't care. Just get out of my house you cake killer.'

But we actually had a great time. The three of us - Noodle, Dog and I - set up camp in a little deli and shared a bikkie and a drink while watching a procession of tradies come through and purchase iced coffee and Villis' sausage rolls. Not exactly a bohemian ambiance but great fun. Especially watching Noodle introduce his Doggy to a gruff, bearded man and have him smile back and say hello and have an imginary cup of tea with a toy.

So anyway, we now have a tow bar and I look forward to the inevitable bruising it will bring to my shins.