If there’s one thing I hate more than misplaced apostrophes, it’s theme parks.  I know there are fully-grown humans who reckon theme parks rock, but that is not something I can comprehend.

I am only speaking for myself here, but I do believe theme parks are a special kind of torture.

And I say this as I sit in my own torture chamber – Dreamworld, on the Gold Coast.  (Just as an aside – this is a marketing ploy. It’s so NOT on the Gold Coast. If it was at the Goldie, there would be seagulls tormenting me – not just pigeons and ibis. Seriously, the hits start the minute you walk in. Maybe you’ve heard about my “issue” with feathered creatures?)

Not a good sign

Anyway, in a moment of weakness I offered (honestly, I must have forgotten to take my medication that day) to take Joe, 11 to Dreamworld. This was due, in part, to the fact that I needed to come up with something that would tempt him a) out of bed, and b) away from the xbox (yes, I am that parent). Also, his school holidays started approximately a year and a half before his sister’s – one of the perks of paying a bizillion dollars a year in fees for his fancy schmancy school.

Anyway, despite the fact that he didn’t seem in the slightest bit bored after 5 days of total inactivity (again, yes, I am that mother), I asked if he’d like to go to Dreamworld. He had 2 weeks left on his “Summer of Fun” unlimited visits pass, and given that his unlimited visits amounted to 1 so far, I figured he may as well get his money’s worth. Wait – my money’s worth.

Anyway, let’s be clear. I offered to take him. My offer began and pretty much ended there. God love him – he didn’t for a minute think that I would be going on any of the rides. Obviously I use the term “rides” loosely. I would rather staple my eyelids to the back of my head than plunge to the ground in a small cage from a kilometre-high tower.

Thankfully, two of Joe’s friends also have “Summer of Fun” passes that expire in a couple of weeks, so Joe won’t be alone on the various pieces of terrifying theme park infrastructure.

We have also been joined by my lovely friend Emily and her other half, who are amongst that odd subsection of the adult community that enjoys theme parks. Emily is nursing a monumental hangover, and has so far put away a medium McChicken Meal and a hot dog (this comes on top of an emergency cheeseburger breakfast). You might think she’d be assuming the please-kill-me-now-lying-back-in-a-chair position. But you’d be wrong. She’s working her way through all the rides as though she’s been on a B12 bender. Still, she’s only 23 so she has those freakish, gen-Y powers of recuperation.

We decided to stop at McDonalds en route to avoid wasting valuable time once we were here on pesky tasks like eating lunch.  This meant that once we arrived, the boys took off as though they had little jet engines attached to their sneakers.  I took the opportunity to embarrass the crap out of them by calling out for them, by name, from some distance away, to tell them to put their hats on. Joe looked as though he had died a thousand deaths. Totally worth it.

My plan was to establish base camp at one of the café tables located outside the “Marketplace Food Hall”. (As an aside, I haven’t been in there, but I suspect there’s not a whole lot of organic swede being sold in there.)

Base Camp

Anyway, after a few minutes of stalking (for the love of God people, how long does it take to eat a churro?), I settled down at a table, unpacked my various devices (just the essentials – macbook, iphone, kindle) and the New Idea, and surveyed the scene.

Turns out I am so inappropriately dressed, I really have no business being here. I realise wearing pearls may have been overdressing slightly, but apparently I should be wearing any combination of the following:

• Cut-off, arse-freezing Daisy Dukes
• Flannie, obviously
• Jeggings. With a flannie
• Sequinned sneakers
• Hoodie (with hood up)
• T-shirt with witty slogan like “If found, please return to pub” with arrow pointing to wearer’s head.
• Turban (there are a LOT of Indian people here).

Despite my discomfort, I have made some effort to throw myself into the theme park experience. I ate a churro. Actually I ate 2. Because they are awesome.   I paid about $7.50 for a coke. See, totally embracing it.

Churros should be a food group

So, having spent the past 3 hours on what can only be described as anthropological research, here are my musings:

I have wondered what the collective is for a group of 15 year old girls in Daisy Dukes and teeny tiny shoulder bags (how do you even fit tampons in there girls?).

• I have wondered whether theme park management thinks that painting and decorating the dunny stalls to resemble wild west outhouses will make us believe we are really cowboys.

• I have wondered why people push 5 year olds in strollers.

• I have looked at people eating slushies bigger than their heads and wondered what flavour “blue” is.

• I have wondered whether the kids at the table next to me are old enough to truly understand the embarrassment that comes with having to eat the cheese sandwiches, sliced watermelon and yoghurt that their parents have packed.

But there is something I don’t need to wonder at all.  I don’t need to wonder if my son has had a good time.  Because his smile says yes, and that’s all that matters.