Since my correspondent’s platypus related murder attempt had failed there was nothing to do but continue on as if nothing had happened. In keeping with this my correspondent took me along to meet the retired diplomat, the third member of our road trip triumvirate. She actually lives a short distance down the road. Along the way my correspondent regaled me with lists of animals I wouldn’t be seeing. I mentioned that I would like to see a bandicoot.
“There’s one!” she announced pointing to an indeterminate organic smear by the side of the road. I explained as delicately as I could that while the bandicoot I was hoping to see didn’t actually have to be alive I would prefer it if it was still three dimensional. My rank ingratitude formed a fruitful topic of conversation until we arrived at the retired diplomat’s home. A cacophony of noise greeted us before the door was even opened.
“She has schnauzers,” said my correspondent.
“That explains the noise,” I replied.
“Does it?”
I entered the retired diplomat’s lounge room adorned with schnauzers and was treated to blue cheese and artisan vodka. Sounds pretty diplomatic to me.
This being a Saturday night it was decided we would hit the town and see the bright light of Hobart. For the record it’s down near the water. After a very satisfying meal we headed to an elegant (it had couches) cocktail bar. There was nothing as plebeian as a drinks list; rather you uttered some imprecise irrelevancies to the bar staff and a short while later they would present you with your innermost personality rendered in ethanol. Mine had a raspberry in it.
After our liquid psychotherapy we wandered along to a pub which had a band playing covers of 80s and 90s hits, badly. Very, very badly. Being less attuned to the mental state of their customers (although the band should have given them a clue) the bar staff insisted that we tell them what we wanted to drink. It helped if you managed to do that while the band was pausing for breath.
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