Yetis at Lunchtime

 I went to the tackle shop at lunchtime to buy a Yeti. Actually, I went in to buy two Yetis. 

There is enough in this sentence to either send me to therapy or to take an hour to unpack with some adequacy. 

The tackle shoP is over the road from the office. They sell all things fishing and camping. They also sell guns. 

But the tackle shop sells Yetis. I wanted one for myself and one for Blarney and Barney, to thank them for looking after the cat. 

I can see the irony of me walking into a tackle shop on a Thursday afternoon. My mother would love it in there. 

Thankfully, the Yetis were just inside the door. 

Yeti's come in all sorts of shapes, sizes and colours.

Owning a Yeti is a rite of passage in the Northern Territory. You're supposed to put your name on your Yeti so it doesn't go walkabout. 

I found the Yetis I was after and made my way to the counter. 

It was really busy.

Everybody seems to have put on their good thongs for the occasion. 

The guy at the counter greeted me warmly and made comment about my buys. 

"Two Yetis."

"Yes, one for me, one for my friends who are looking after my cat."

"Where is your cat?"

"In Melbourne."

"Can't feed him to the crocs then?"

"Ah...Nope."

"But two Yetis. Wow."

"I'm going to be working up here for a bit."

"Well, you'll fit in now."

"I know."

I paid for the Yetis and bid the man farewell, before finding some lunch and wandering back to the office.

And what, you may ask, the fuck is a Yeti.

It's a brand of kitchen and drinkware. I bought two coffee buckets. I quite like them. 

I'll fit in a bit better when I come up in a few weeks. Me and my Yeti.

Strange place is the Territory. 

Oh, and if you're still confused, this is a Yeti. (An insulated coffee mug, sold all over the Territory, but especially at tackle shops.)

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