the weekend

Yesterday afternoon I stood at the mailbox and posted a letter.

This weekend's events resulted in standing at the mailbox posting a letter.

I felt so at peace driving to Mudgee this weekend. I was cool, calm and collected. I even took some landscape photos on the drive.

I arrived at my friend's place and he was taking one of his customary mid-afternoon naps. It seems that's what you do when you're eccentric and 57 years old.

Not to worry, it turns out he has one of the most stunning gardens ever. My camera got a bit of a workout.

Once I took the photos it seemed to still be naptime for my friend. I sat down on the couch and started reading his copy of Vanity Fair.

I was three quarters of the way through an insightful article about a Parisian taxidermy gallery rising from the ashes of a fire when he woke from his slumber.

He needed a cigarette (or five) and some coffee before he was coherent. And that was the precise moment I became a passive smoking Malboro man for the weekend.

We had the world's strongest coffee (seriously, I think I can see the additional hairs on my chest), sat on the balcony looking at a beautiful vista and shooting the breeze.

We talked about the Global Financial Crisis, how it's stupid that world debt got out of control but agreed that it had to happen. The GFC is a good thing (if you don't owe anyone anything).

Then he said, "I got your letter but I haven't read the option agreement."

What?

"Uh, yeah well that's cool. It's a very simple agreement, I've heard of 3 page contracts that aren't even binding. This isn't one of them," I managed to blurt out.

"That's good. I'm happy to sign it. It should be good."

He went on to say that he himself doesn't want the royalties of whatever came of it. He wants his cut to go towards building up a library of books, "so someone like yourself can come along and discover something they want to do."

Sweet.

So later that night we ventured to the Eastern side of the Great Dividing Range to a friend's place. They live in a valley that has something special and intruiging about it. At dinner I described it as, "the middle of nowhere yet the centre of the universe."

My friends in the valley are part of this scheme where they get backpackers to volunteer on their organic farm. This weekend they had four French backpackers. They were cooking us wood-fired pizzas.

These friends also invited some part time neighbours. A Swiss couple who have made their millions from selling up-market shower heads. I kid you not.

So at this dinner we had a former senior TV executive and his scientist wife; the Swiss millionaires, four French backpackers, a gay eccentric man and his friend who was a hairdresser but now considering opening his own art gallery. And me. A girl from Perth getting a contract signed.

It's strange how the most unconventional combination of people can end up having a fantastic evening. The Swiss man got pissed as all get out and yelled, "I need some more vine!" more times than I can remember. He also discussed the GFC with my friend and surprise, surprise the capitalist and the Marxist ended up at the same conclusion. GFC = good (for some... in the end).

At midnight I was flagging. It was time to go back to the Western side of the Great Dividing Range and sleep.

As we made the former hairdresser shut the gate, my friend grabbed me around the neck in one of those drunken hugs and said, "You're going to have a great time telling this story."

"And you're going to make a lot of money."

We finally made it back to have a drunken dessert of apple pie and super strong coffee.

"Jess, have you seen Miss Saigon?"

"Uh no?"

There was a disgruntled murmur of disapproval along the lines of, "Well it was a bit before your generation."

So on went the soundtrack. Did I mention I was flagging?

He proceeded to explain the plot.

"So it's the Vietnam war and all the Vietnamese women need money, so they're selling their pussy for like a dollar..."

Did I mention I was flagging? It was at this point I mentioned I was flagging and went to bed.

The next morning I woke up and braced myself for another strong coffee. I ended up making myself the worst cup of tea in the world.

My friend woke up feeling a little seedy after the previous evening's chatfest with the Swiss millionaire. It took a few more cigarettes to wake him up.

"So we'll go out and plant your trees, then we'll make some breakfast..."

"And then I'll grab a pen and a dollar."

"Yep."

We went out to a patch of his property near a creak and some sheer, tall cliffs. It's one of those places that are truly spectacular.

We planted two eucalypts. One either side of a similar eucalypt that had been gorwing for three years.

"We'll see how these guys go in three years."

"A lot can happen in three years."

We went back and made breakfast in his primitve gas bottle powered kitchen.

After bacon and baked beans on toast, out came the option agreement. I pulled out a 1984 dollar coin from my pocket and gave it to him. We signed the option agreement thrice. One copy for him, one copy for me and one copy for a safe place. He stuck his dollar to his copy.

That was that. For the token price of a dollar, I have bought the sole ability to create a book and/or a film out of a truly amazing story.

I'm not a confrontational person, nor am I the contract getting and signing kind of person. This has been a completely foreign thing for me to do - flying by the seat of my pants. But it was the right thing to do.

So this eventuated in my standing at the mailbox, posting my resignation letter. It kind of felt like abseiling.

But just like in abseiling, it may be scary to be hanging from such a height but you know you will make it and have a great time all the while.