In fact, one can never be delayed in Thangool. Forty degrees of shimmering heat determine that nothing moves quickly. Even the flies seem disinterested, reacting with disdain and lethargy to each fruitless wave of the hand. Gabrielle had arrived at the airport early, hoping to use the air-conditioning of the terminal to reduce the effects of the summer hangover that still threatened to split her head in two. Even now, as a musk-coloured twilight dared to threaten the daylight’s reign, the heat was stifling.

The cabbie who dropped her there had refused to turn on the air in his cab, even for a pretty girl from Brisbane with a hangover. “You get used to it,” he smiled through rotting teeth. The “terminal” sat awkwardly in the middle of a cow paddock. A couple of fluorescent lights flickered into life above the doors as Gabrielle’s cab rolled away. “God, just get me out of here,” she breathed to herself.

Trailing her luggage behind her, she pushed at the doors, which steadfastly refused to yield. She pressed her face against the glass and cupped her eyes, hoping to attract the attention of someone who might let her in. Two hours before her scheduled departure, the bowels of Thangool’s terminal rested in darkness. Gabrielle whimpered, massaged her temples and slid down the glass to sit on her luggage. She let her head rest against the filthy doors and watched the first of the moths interrogate the buzzing lamps.

“What did you expect?” she wondered to herself. She should have realised what the weekend might hold in store when all the invitation required was a pair of “clean” jeans. Clean jeans? Was there any other kind? No matter, she had decided to wear that little black dress that always did the trick in the Brisbane pubs. Surely there would be others of the same mind? After all, it was an engagement party.

Gabrielle giggled softly to herself as she recalled her arrival the previous evening. Somehow, she felt like the sheriff walking through the doors of the texas saloon. She was certain that the music had stopped as the eyes of thirty young men in filthy Akubras turned from their cans of heavy fourex to assess her. Within minutes, she had been surrounded by Danno, Stevo, Wayno, Davo and Hammo. The rest of the night had been a blur of syrupy fourex, devils-on-horseback, introductory line dancing and countless invitations to share a swag. Thankfully, she had accepted none and vaguely recalled falling into the starched sheets of the A1 Motor Inn about one-thirty that morning.

Gabrielle groaned and hoping to encourage her headache to quit her in search of another host, lightly tapped the glass with the back of her head. Instead, she summoned the birth of fresh lights in the semi-darkness of the terminal and the click of a latch behind her. Rising to her feet, she was greeted by a good-looking man in white shorts and long socks, whose name tag proudly proclaimed him as Rick. “Hi,” said Rick, “you better come on in, I’m the pilot. You’re in for a long wait I’m afraid. Our bird’s broken down in Brisbane so we won’t be leaving for a while. In the meantime, I can offer you air-con and coffee. Follow me.”

Maybe, smiled Gabrielle to herself, the weekend might yet turn for the better.