This weekend I sat by a lake with eight others of roughly the same age, and turned 25 as we sang along to the smashing pumpkins, spice girls, ace of base and alanis morisette. We still remembered every word.
We communed with nature, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer and red wine in the mud. Wearing polyester blankets patterned in leopard print. We made new friends and ate chinese takeaway in the middle of a tiny town, deserted at 10pm but for a few hangers on at the pokies.
We talked about Kurt Cobain, 2 Pac and Biggie. We rowed in Kayaks on another lake, our iPods and portable speakers splashed with water but continuing to play incredibly offensive gangster rap. (We turned it off when we realised how many children we were sharing the lake with).
We spent hundreds of dollars, on beer, breakfast, barbecue supplies. We feasted on sandwiches and easter eggs in the middle of the night and powerade and golden pash the next morning. We got lost on the way there and the way home, but we got back to the city in time for the unfortunate few who had to work.