A super-long weekend with super-annoying wet weather. All we wanted was fish ’n’ chips for lunch. So we set off for Doyle’s at Watson’s Bay (opened since 1885!), a 15k drive across the Harbour Bridge. But instead of drinking in the lavish lifestyle of the rich and richer of Sydney’s eastern suburbs, there I was, taking deep breaths to quell my nausea. For me, all roads lead to motion sickness...
It took me back to over 25 years ago. Dad belonged to a men’s group whose members and their families got together once a year for a “Club Picnic” to Marve, a beach some two hours away from where we lived in Bandra, Bombay.
And year-in, year-out, the journey unfolded in pretty much the same way: the picnickers would assemble at St. Peter’s Church compound with their patli-potlis; the hired bus was always late; Larsen C. would climb to the roof of the bus despite dire threats from his parents; some families would be even later than the bus; a final headcount was made; a prayer was said; and then the bus took off to the tune of “She’ll be coming down the mountains when she comes (when she comes!)...”
And yours truly would vomit in the bus.
You see, that big glass of milk (with Complan, remember that?) I was forced to gulp down before the trip would start churning inside my wee belly. With every twist and turn in the road, I could feel that milk rising, rising, rising, until the only way was OUT! My guts spilled all over the Rexene seats!!
The humiliation. The stench. The blessed relief.