Local Acre-Chaser, Tilly Augustus (25), left home on Saturday to embark on a 5-year-plan to put her feet up on 100 square clicks.

After throwing on a bit of lippy and an understated ‘homestead akubra’ – Tilly and her girlfriends made the most of the five hour drive west, by learning the words to every Luke Combs song, just in case they were presented with any campfire singalongs over the weekend.

Arriving just after midday at the first country races of the Desert Spring Carnival, the girls moved quickly to begin breaking down which of the jackaroos and ringers present may already have some land of their own.

Acre-Chasing, Also known as Hectare-Hunting, is a favourite pastime for both rural and metropolitan women throughout Queensland and Northern New South Wales.

It is most popular with bachelorettes who have recently graduated from tertiary education, or recently divorced some loser city boy.

However, some acre-chasers are known to start as early as the Colts grand finals straight after high school.

Acre-Chasing is a subtle artform – with a strict set of guidelines provided by the lobby group ACA (Acre Chasers Anonymous).

The most crucial rule to chasing acres, according to the ACA, is for participants to refrain from correcting the bucktooth young rum pigs of rural Australian when they mispronounce the basic English language.

The guidelines also specify that the gateway to begin negotiations with potential suitors, who may or may not already have access to a couple thousand acres, is to compliment their shirt – no matter how disgracefully unironed it is.

Other pointers include telling them that they look like realistically attractive action movies stars, like Ben Affleck or a young Bruce Willis.

With the ACA handbook in their purses, Tilly and her girlfriends have this weekend decided they are done with the apps and friends-of-friends brand of dating in the city – and are instead moving quickly to form their very own farming dynasties.

“Wowwww” says Tilly, as she bumps into a young agricultural professional at the Cattleman’s Bar.

She exaggerates how much she has to crank her neck back to look up at the man.

“Yourrrr talll” she says.

The target smirks bashfully. Tilly continues.

“Hey I like your shirt” she says, nodding to the hideously untucked bit of striped polyblend cloth hanging off his shoulders.

“Thanks” he says, with a grin.

“What’s your name luv?”

Tilly’s friends get the signal and disperse. They begin running decoys on any ex-girlfriends, or the overprotective mum and aunties that might interrupt this budding romance.


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