Prang

2011, Bill Marsh, Great South Australia Stories, HarperCollins Publishers, Australia, unnumbered page, I remember when a call came through that a crop sprayer had had a plane prang down at Naracoorte, in the south-east of South Australia.

The typical prang cost a few hundred dollars in panelbeating charges.

If people drove like that in Australia there would be constant prangs.

The drive host, Mark Day, recalls the sinking feeling as he covered an accident on the Tullamarine expressway and wondered what commuters in Sydney would think about hearing all the details of the prang.

“We have to wear good socks and boots,” said one pilot with a grin, “—as we often prang in the jungle, and have to walk home.”

“Didn′t bump nobody,” I sneer. “That′s because you were careful,” says the wife. “Your forecast doesn′t say you will prang. It merely says ‘exercise care today,’ which you did.”

Soon after rescuing some silly children from the local caves, the alien prangs his vessel and dies.

On Friday, I picked up our camper van, upgraded to a four sleeper so Elysee and I could each find a neutral corner, which I managed to “prang,” navigating the parking lot, within one hour of signing away my house as security.

The prang is surrounded by walls, which are in turn surrounded by smaller prangs and chedis, some of which are rather precariously supported.

The second platform surrounds the base of the prang proper, whose closed entranceways are guarded by four statues of the Hindu god Indra on his three-headed elephant Erawan.