 Port Arthur: just don't ask NQR to take you there
It is clear that both my nature and my nurture have
conspired to ensure that when my space is invaded, I will not cope.
God help me over the next month when The Invasion really kicks in.
Most Tasmanians would know what The Invasion is. It’s that
time of the year when all our relatives, friends and random Facebook
connections from outside Tasmania start landing on our front doors requiring
food, lodging and tours.
The first batter up is the random from Facebook that the
hubby chats to in the UK. I know nothing about him really, but he’s apparently
a nice guy. He’ll be sleeping just 80 centimetres away from me on the other
side of the built-in robe for a week, so he’d better be! Apparently he really
wants to see Port Arthur.
 Mt Wellington: don't forget the warm coat
Then hubby’s Melbourne mob arrive. All six of them. We have
two beds. So my lounge room is about to become a homeless shelter. And they
really want to see Port Arthur too.
If my life is going to turn into an episode of Full House I want to be John Stamos’
character, please. He was so hot in 1989. And I reckon he’d be far better at
sharing living space whilst doubling up as a fun and informative convict ruins
tour guide than I. That said, I don’t know how he’d handle the inevitable
impromptu drag shows on the Isle of the Dead and the gleaning of decorating
ideas from the Commandant’s residence.
The good news for Tasmania is that my house will be full of
single gay guys sleeping in random spots on the floor, all wanting good
memories of Tasmania to take back to the north island with them. So feel free
to drop over.
 The washer: overuse predicted
And never, never, never ask me to take you to Port Arthur.
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