The GOF Travelogues

His Royal GOFness descended from his lofty perch late last month to beat me with sticks and belittle my life choices pay his little princess a visit. He amused himself for a few days while I was at work, then for one reason or another we ended up at Ballarat for the weekend.

I thoroughly enjoy Ballarat each time I’m there, but for the life of me I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s the beautiful old buildings, or the golden, violent history, or the fact that I’m the only person within a seventy kilometre radius with the vaguest drop of ethnicity.

Or it could very well be the property prices. GOF had his arm wildly clutched by an overexcited Inga on several occasions as we wandered past glossy real estate agency displays featuring armies of 3 bedroom homes for $200,000 and well under. To compare, $200,000 in my suburb would currently buy me a pebble and a mailbox to put in front of my pebble.

Real estate revelations aside, the rest of the weekend was groovy. GOF greeted Ballarat with his usual gruff observational narrative (“there’s a big bugger with a pick on his shoulder”), then proceeded to edify me with the history of the cantilevered verandah. We shivered our way through the Botanical Gardens, and he graciously tolerated my fangirl obsession with the Waubra Wind Farm while I graciously tolerated his misnavigation on the way to St. Arnaud and his making the Subway girl think I was his mentally challenged daughter. We visited the requisite relatives, then I threw him on a plane, slapped its hindquarters and sent him back on his way to the Far North.

Sadly, there are no photos to add to my blog post. If there’s one thing GOF and I have in common (I suspect there’s more than one thing, but if I think on it too long I start to get hives), it’s our inept holiday photography. Mrs GOF was aghast when GOF came home with a grand total of eight snapshots for the whole trip. As I pointed out to her, she knows perfectly well what we both look like, and we certainly don’t look (or behave) any better in different latitudes.

So instead here’s a photo from his last visit in 2009, when he made me drink the ickypoo shitwater from the Daylesford mineral springs:

Someone call child services!

Stupid yucky Daylesford

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6 thoughts on “The GOF Travelogues

  1. Oh what fun! Lol at Ickypoo Shitwater and Cantilevered Verandah. Definitely characters in a novel…..or the names of rock bands!

    Mr. GOF is definitely following the Lauri method of parenting. Making the Subway people think that our children our mentally challenged. Although I am sure since all the subway people are my kids’ age they are telepathing each other about who is the REAL mental challenge in the room.

    I also lol’d about your camera issues. Yes Mrs. GOF knows what you look like. It’s still fun for your mother to see what you are doing at each second of your life.

    As for real estate buzzes! $200,000 IS fantastic! Three bedrooms? No pebble?
    I hope you find something! That would be awesome!
    Nice post!

    Now I have to head out to 8 more torturous hours of computer training on our new lab computer system that is barely 75% functional. (Yes, the old training method “Well, if it were working it should do…”)
    Sigh. My head hurts already from banging it against the wall in the training lab. Have a lovely day!

    • Urgh, have fun with that computer training. You need wine, not headbanging. Much more effective for stress, I’ve found!

      I was blown away at the prices of properties once you leave the suburban limits – I was looking at spending $300K in my area, but for the same price in the country you can get a sprawling 4 bedroom on 3/4 acres. Amazing!

      I don’t know why parents think it’s fun to make their offspring look like idiots. I guess it’s just something you figure out once you have kids!

  2. While on a week’s stay in London, I took a day-trip to see Stonehenge and Bath. Bath is a little town surrounding the tourist income generated by the ancient Roman baths there. Bummer? That you couldn’t even dip your little finger into the steaming, marble-clad pools. Bonus? That you can purchase a pint of the healing, mineral-laden water to drink. Bummer? That it’s a 1-1/2 hour drive back to London, and the bus driver doesn’t give a teensy crap if your bladder is about to explode all over his bus.

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