The dentist was a disaster (we pulled out, of course). Playing football with the socks resulted in giving Sarah a fat lip when she walked through the lounge room. (I swear it was Rube’s elbow and not mine that hit her.) The dog track was fun (even though we came back twelve bucks poorer than what we left). The hair drier was thrown back over the fence with a note attached that said, Give us back our fifteen bucks or we’ll bloody kill you, you cheating bastards. (We gave the money back the next day.) We couldn’t end up finding the tape player (and the guy down the street was pretty tight anyway so I doubt we’d have got much for it). Then, last of all, there was just no way we could ever sell the TV, even though I came up with eleven good reasons why we should give the telly the chop. (They go like this:

One. In ninety-nine per cent of shows, the good guys win in the end, which just isn’t the truth. I mean, let’s face it. In real life, the bastards win. They get all the girls, all the cash, all the everything. Two. Whenever there’s a sex scene, everything goes perfectly, when really, the people in the shows should be as scared of it as me. Three. There are a thousand ads. Four. The ads are always much louder than the actual shows. Five. The news is always kind of depressing. Six. The people are all beautiful. Seven. All the best shows get the axe. For example, ‘Northern Exposure’. Have you heard of it? No? Exactly — it got the axe years ago. Eight. Rich blokes own all the stations. Nine. The rich blokes own beautiful women as well. Ten. The reception can be a bit of a shocker at our place anyway because our aerial’s shot. Eleven. They keep showing repeats of a show called ‘Gladiators’.)

The only question now is, What’s today’s idea? The truth is, it’s more of a decision to conclude on last night, as Rube speaks over at me. He starts with an ‘Oi’.

‘Oi,’ he says.

‘Yeah?’

‘What are your thoughts?’

‘On what?’

‘You know what. Perry.’

‘We need the money.’

‘I know, but Mum and Dad won’t let us help pay the bills.’

‘Yeah, but we can hold our own end up — pay our own food and stuff so everything lasts longer.’

‘Yeah, I s’pose.’

Then Rube says it.

It’s decided.

Concluded.

Ended.

He speaks the words, ‘We’re gonna do it.’

‘Okay.’

Only, we know we won’t pay our own food. No. We have no intention. We’re doing this for some other reason. Some other reason that wants inside us.