Picture Cory Bernardi and Donald Trump, on a road trip in a small Volkswagen.
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“Turn right. You want to be in your far right-hand lane. Right. Right. NOW.
“Bugger.”
Last week, former Liberal Minister Amanda Vandstone referred to newly-minted independent Senator Bernardi, as not very bright. I’d say not very bright, and directionally challenged.
I too was directionally challenged, but only for three days last week, and not in the political sense.
I like to think that most days I know where I'm going.
I can discern left from right, night from day, brioche from sourdough and whether I'll have butter AND peanut butter on my morning toast.
In fact, my regular response to ‘how are you?’ is, ‘awake and upright’.
So what sort of idiot agrees to, two late-night airport runs in three days?
Idiot mum, eager to help, visiting Melbourne from Tasmania mum, that's who.
Can one really prepare for the erupting volcano that has become Melbourne traffic; slowly spewing its mass of steel and rubber in every direction?
My navigator was our daughter, who it should be noted spent much of her first five years atop my husband's shoulders to avoid walking or getting lost.
Sure. I would happily drive to the airport for her boyfriend’s late-night departure to New Zealand.
I was, after all, there to help.
Sure, I was five minutes along Dandenong Rd at 10.30pm when I became aware that I couldn't see a bloody thing, except the few metres of headlight, directly in front.
Sure, I couldn't read the road signs. Sure, I had no idea where I was.
Sure, I wished I was home watching Great British Rail Journeys where the trains had drivers and I would be transported to Scotland, not the bloody Westgate Bridge.
With the little sight I had, I spotted a full-scale, floating wire sculpture of a house? WTF?
Whose idea was it to install a sizeable highway artwork at a most distracting and disturbing point for dazed and confused visitors?
As we rolled the boyfriend out of the VW, I mentally prepared myself for the return journey. I flopped into bed at 1.15am.
Next morning: `Would I mind collecting boyfriend when he returned, 11.30pm Sunday night?’
Sure, he’s done the same for us many times, and this time I would be prepared, like Usain Bolt.
I took an afternoon nap, had a hot shower and coffee at 10pm and bugger me, like a Fred Hollows procedure… I could see.
And what a safe feeling it is to be able to see where you're driving?
Good thing, because Victoria Police were blitzing Terminal 4, searching arriving cars and the NZ flight was late.
By 12.30am, after four loops around Tullamarine, we had our sleepy kiwi in the back seat and I pointed the Polo back to the city, and bed.
As Sunday night rolled into Monday morning, I found myself crossing the Westgate Bridge for the fifth time in three days
I was poignantly reminded that it was my fault our daughter doesn't like to drive.
Once, when she was learning, she veered onto a verge to avoid an oncoming Landcruiser.
“What sort of mother says ‘people like you cause accidents’?”
Just after 1am, and we had crossed the Westgate, headed back into the city. Not long now.
Then we hit `road works’. `Stay in yellow lines’.
Crap. `Detour’. Crap.
Right... I should have turned right.
And before you could say `Cory and Donald have no moral compass’, there we were, back on the bloody Westgate Bridge, headed to the airport.