Victoria (non regina)

So some venturing around the Great South Land, although not quite Matthew Flinders esque in its circumnaviagtory scope, was required so after a few days to get over the jet lag and reaquaint myself with wintery weather, Di and I hit the road bound for Victoria. [I have discovered a phenomenon akin to, and indeed complimentary with jetlag, which I have taken to call the 'flesh lag'. Going from one hemisphere where everyone is rugged up against the cold into another where summery dresses and less clothing in general are worn. Takes a little to get used and was most noticeable on the return to Blightly where some bright male sparks think that they will be cooler with shirts off (and sunburn on) and women oft impersonate Marylin Monroe when the wind whips through the dresses.]

In Beechworth [of Ned Kelly/bakery/gold rush fame] we stayed with my aunt and uncle at their bed and breakfast. I sent a telegram from the Beechworth Telegraphy Station, which claimed to be 'The busiest telegraphy station in the world!' I was not to be outdone with their fancy claims of hyperbole so I asked the little old lady at the counter, how it was the busiest in the world. She must have seen that coming with my maverick swagger and attempts to impress Di with my telegraphy knowledge, vast and extensive though it may be. Anyway her response was, 'There aren't many operational stations left in the world.' Say WHAT? That's like mowing a cricket pitch in the park next to the MCG and say, 'This is the best pitch in the city', but I didn't want to argue with here, so left it alone. I do remember that 'telegram' was a maverick word back in the day, and clever people thought it should be 'telegrapheme' to be 'more correct' (whatever that means) but it is here to stay. I thought about bowling this googly to her because yes, since you ask, it would make me feel like a big man, but instead I sent a 15 word dispatch to Mum and Dad and paid my $2 donation to make sure that it remained the busiest station in Beechworth at least. I also bought some fudge: Di purchased some 'Lavender' flavoured stuff, and I was not having a bar of that and declared that I would avail mysefl of some more masculine sounding material and grabbed a 'Lethal Weapon', hoping that it would be served with the line, 'I am too old for this sh*$' but it was not to be - Danny Glover does NOT work at the Beechworth sweet house, make a note of that.

Down in Gippsland (we were there just before the floods came, and indeed I got back to England just before their floods came, so I was doing well in the flood sweepstakes) we went to an icon known as 'Trestle Bridge' which was bridgy, to say the least. I casually remarked to Di that it looked pretty high, but that trees in this region (that's right, my arboreal senses are honed like you wouldn't believe) would probably grow 30 metres at least. Di was incredulous and claimed that the bridge could be no higher than 20 metres off the ground. I said, well, no - it would be thirty if it is an inch (always use imperial measurements for emphasis, noone says that someone lives 'Kilometres and kilometres away' now do they?), but was prepared to let the matter stand. Again I was challenged; given that she had spent years training in swimming pools of various sizes, the claim was that one upended 25 metre pool would be an overestimate. There was only going to be one settler in this debate, and that was Newtonian mechanics 101.

I grabbed 3 rocks of similar size and climbed up with Di. After dropping the rocks and using my trusty stopwatch timing was done, mental averaging took place, some squaring and halving, and we were done. 31.25 with an error of say 5 each way due to the clock - and I danced. I don't normally dance, but with this sort of vindication, I felt a 'Trestle Bridge Boogey' was called for. Unfortuntaely the Glen Miller Big Band wasn't there for accompanyment and thus no photos were taken.