Moon Landing

Hiatus, a missing period in time. The geological origins of the word describe a period of time in a rock record that is missing. There's a gap in the chronology. It's also a gap year of bad hair cuts, burns from heroic attempts at baking sourdough bread and people proclaiming daily that they've always been good at isolation. I'm one of the latter, though I gave up early in the game as too many others who live in suburbia were saying the same thing. By now, all our lovely seedlings are sprouting after the last great vege seedling shortage. Either that or they've withered in their egg carton trays and nurtured only by the tears of frustrated first-time gardeners. I'm smug to report that I now have a grazing bed of rocket and coriander outside the front door and the purple beans are shooting up the karri hazel sticks like the proverbial beanstalk.

Okay, so enough of the hubris. I've been putting it off, but here is my proper post in a bloody AGE. As a result of a federal government initiative on internet blackspots (and I'm in the mother of blackspots here) a technician turned up a few weeks ago and put a satellite dish on my roof. While he was trying to boot it up, and while I was a little bit obsessed with the fact that there was actually a man in my house, he realised that my tiny solar panel in the shady forest would not give us sufficient electricity. 'Shall I start the generator?' I asked. I know genny surges are not great for digital equipment but he'd driven a hundred kilometres and then another ten along a bush track to get here. It was the generator or nothing. Five minutes later the engine ran out of petrol. I had some more in the boat motor and prayed that marine oil in a four stroke generator wouldn't do it too much harm. I got a hose and started siphoning. Yep. I swallowed about half a cup of fuel and realised later that night I'd also inhaled some into my lungs, as I was breathing air in and petrol fumes out. What was even worse, at the time the technician was watching me and saw the whole thing. We still couldn't boot up the internet and eventually he left in disgust, saying 'I'm gonna have to come back,' while breaking out in an anxiety rash and kicking my dog out of his car.

Three weeks later he came back. I'd organised an alternative power source. The solar power company in the nearest town have been ghosting me since they realised how far away I live, so I'm on my own when it comes to setting up a decent power system. Anyway, the technician returned and within fifteen minutes, he'd pulled up the Bureau of Meteorology website on my laptop. It was the strangest feeling. For five years now I've lived off grid and out of range and there is the latest weather on my computer. 'I would give you a big hug ... if I wasn't about to give you a terrible disease or something,' I said. He took a step back and said, 'Steady on there,' but I could tell he was pretty pleased.

The first thing I did online was send an email to the people who own my house. First White Woman in History Sends Email From Broke Inlet. 'Oh wow!' she replied. 'This is like the moon landing.'

Indeed. My next post will be about the various and bizarre iso injuries I've managed to inflict on myself and how a zoom meeting with my university bosses in my in range spot in the forest (pre moon landing) was hijacked by a mob of pig hunters and their dogs.