The Dating Game
an excerpt

For a week I lived in the caravan from hell. That time was a blur of new faces and strange experiences. I spent my first night trying to sleep on what had to be the world’s hardest mattress. The caravan was stifling hot even with every window and both ceiling hatches thrown open. After an hour of tossing and turning I moved my bedding out to the annexe and set it up under the back window where the breeze was coolest. I dozed off after that but was woken by the morning sun and the sound of skateboard wheels on indifferently maintained concrete. My neck and back ached from sleeping on such a thin mattress and my eyes were hot and gritty with lack of sleep.
After a bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of fairly decent coffee from the milkbar across the road, I collected my boom gate card from Joe and drove to the nearest shopping centre. I bought what I thought were a week’s groceries, only remembering when I was standing in the checkout line that my fridge space was limited and I didn’t have a freezer. The next few minutes were spent putting back the frozen chips and cuts of meat. On my way back to the car I bought an inflatable airbed and foot pump from a shop that sold camping supplies. No way was I spending another night on that mattress.
On the third day I brought my suitcases in out of the landy and made a stab at unpacking. But I had far too many belongings for such a confined space so after a frustrating and sweaty half-hour I put everything back and decided to just get out what I needed. Mum would have been scandalized by my new, disorganised lifestyle.
After that, I just had to ring home. Dad was at work but I got hold of mum. I meant to tell her everything that had happened to me since I left home. Instead, I ended up giving her only the bare minimum with no details. Like when I told her I’d found a place to live that was walking distance from the beach but neglected to mention that it was a caravan with no toilet or hot running water. She probably thought I’d found a charming waterfront cottage. I hung up feeling lonely and guilty.
That night, I ate two-minute noodles soaked in mushroom soup. The soup tasted okay but I left the noodles boiling for too long. They ended up rubbery and tasteless. I forced myself to eat the lot as an object lesson in what happens when you disregard the directions on packaged food. All the time I was thinking about rare steak slathered in onion gravy, with mushy peas and creamy mashed potato on the side.
On day four, I went to the beach. I ate hot chips with chicken salt for lunch and fell asleep in the afternoon. The result was a terrific sunburn that kept me awake half the night with the shivers.
Day five was spent recovering from day four. I found an ancient box fan in one of the kitchen cupboards and lay on my airbed with a wet flannel over my eyes to block out the sun. I emerged only to use the toilet block and take tepid showers to cool the heat in my face and shoulders.
On the sixth day, Joe Ericson dropped by.
“You look like a peeled lobster,” he said without preamble. “Haven’t you city blokes heard of sun cream?”
I explained about falling asleep on the beach. He said it could happen to anyone but I should watch myself because skin cancers were no joke.
“But I didn’t come here to give you a lecture. I came to let you know that a big family’s moving out of one of the mobile homes tomorrow and it’s yours if you want it.”
Did I want it? Was the Pope against contraception? Did bears shit in the woods?
Then, just to add to my good mood, Joe said I was invited to a barbecue at his place that night.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want,” he said diffidently, before I had a chance to reply. “It’s just that the whole town’s dead curious about you and I didn’t think you’d want a bunch of stickybeaks landing on your doorstep.”
I told him I’d love to come, then made another trip to the shopping centre to by a dessert and a bottle of wine. I hadn’t been asked to bring anything, but I was grateful for the opportunity to eat fresh food. Besides, I had been brought up to believe that it’s rude to arrive at a party empty-handed.