9 July 2025
Wednesday. A woman at the back of the tour went pale when Kev pointed at the dunny. “It’s so small,” she said. Small! I nearly dropped Bev.
Bev is my axe, for the benefit of future historians. We chop firewood together. It’s a very calm relationship.
I want it on the record that my dunny is the roomiest outhouse west of the Great Dividing Range. Nobody is wedged in a corner. Nobody is breathing down anyone’s neck, unless they’re close friends. There’s room to move, room to think and room to stand back and admire the timberwork.
There’s no smoke, either. I won’t have it. Some people’s dunnies are full of fog machines and nonsense. Mine has fresh outback air, give or take, and a sunset coming through the cracks. It does get dark as the hour goes on, mind, and there may be the odd flash when things get exciting. That’s just nature, and also the lighting.
She came out grinning and said it was bigger than her flat in town. I have never been so proud.
— Huge Axeman
