The Beach


Listening To: Herzeleid : Rammstein

Current Horn Factor :

Horn Factor = Boing !

Quote of The Day
tom_0369 man
tom_0369 im never moving to seatle washington
tom_0369 i flew over it and it was raining and gray as fuck
tom_0369 it was depressing
sammich when was this?
tom_0369 flight simluator 2004

Sorry I haven’t had much to report of late, kids. ‘Tis officially the silly season, so in between attending various office Xmas parties (more on those later, perhaps) and being flat-out at work, I haven’t had much time or inclination left to post.

However given that I live a stones throw from Bondi Beach (one of last weekends officially designated ‘no-go zones’), and given the depressing events of two weekends ago in Cronulla … I thought it was about time I gave you my two cents worth on Sydney’s current ongoing beachside turf wars / race-riots. Strap yourselves in – this ain’t gonna be a ‘light and airy’ post ! First though, for those of you unfamiliar with the DB story, I should give you a bit of background so you’ll have to proper context to put my forthcoming rant in.

I was born in 1977 in Prague, in the Czech Republic. Both my parents are also Czech, and we emmigrated to Australia in 1984 after living in Pakistan for 6 years where my dad was a trade attache to the Czech embassy. ‘Emmigrated’ is not quiet the right word though of course, since back then the world was still in the grips of the tail-end of the ‘cold war’, and (then) Czechslovakia was one of the ‘iron curtain’ Communist countries. So in actual fact, my parents didn’t simply emmigrate with me, they ‘defected to the West’ – with all the attendant hush-hush secrecy that implies.

Since then, I’ve spent most of my life living in Australia – and indeed I feel ‘Aussie’ – as much as anyone born here. I have the citizenship and passport papers to prove it. I also happen to possess a Czech passport however, and I’m as equally proud of my Czech heritage as I am of being Australian. Personally, I never thought the two were mutually exclusive.

Unfortunately groovers, I’ve had people trying to tell me different virtually my whole life. In the current debate on ‘racism’, ‘national identity’ and similar themes stemming from the events at Cronulla two weeks ago and the ongoing beachside tension since, anyone who has publicly expressed dismay at the racist sympathies apparent in some sections of the Australian electorate is, in my opinion, either a naive fool or trying to manipulate the debate for their own sinister ends. Growing up a migrant kid in the 80′s and 90′s, from the get-go as a 7-year old I was made painfully aware of the fact that Anglo-Saxon ‘aussies’ weren’t entirely comfortable with people from different backgrounds.

Bullied, taunted and regularly beat-up at school for everything from my accent, to the lunches my mum would pack for me (never mind that in those early days my parents were often so poor they could barely afford to feed themselves, yet they would save the ‘best’ food for me), to my clothes and even my last name (which is Czech but might as well be Arabic for all the good that did me, and certainly sounds it) . My experience is far from unique – the European immigrant families of the 50′s & 60′s would have faced similar prejudice when they came out here after WWII, as have our waves of Asian immigrants (the so-called “boat people”) in the 70′s and 90′s. Coming into the new century and the new millennium, it seems like it’s the turn of migrants of ‘Middle-Eastern Appearance’ and background to be the targets of this undercurrent of racism.

Like any migrant who has come to this country in the last 20 years I can attest to the fact that a level of racism has always been inherent in the Australian mind-set and always will be. Being from a communist country in the 80′s certainly didn’t help either. Yet, trying to paint this country and its people with a racist brush is to do it a great dis-service. For every fat, freckle-skinned 7 year old of Irish stock trying to beat me up for being a “communist, wog, poofter” (never mind that a 7 year old doesn’t even know what a ‘communist’ or ‘poofter’ is), there was a kid from India who wanted to know what living in Pakistan was like. For every 6th-generation ‘Australian’ making fun of my name or stealing my raw-capsicum and my salami sandwiches in order to throw them over the playground fence, there was another 6th-generation kid whose uncle had married a woman from Yugoslavia and was thus curious about life in Eastern Europe. I think a quote I read the other day in the Herald sums it up best –

“Our society can be both warmly welcoming and capable of deep, dangerous racism”

As a matter of fact, I think in some respects it was easier for migrants in the 80′s & 90′s, when the successive Hawke and Keating governments were committed to a little social policy called “multiculturalism”. At its root, this policy and its attendant legislation were about building a homogenous national identity out of many disparate wholes. Somehow, it seemed to work too – more or less. Certainly as I’ve already stated, an element of racism has always prevailed; but at least under multiculturalism this was discouraged on a national level, and the government policies of the time were all about trying to combat the racial and cultural divisions in Australian society as a whole, not about trying to exploit them. Unfortunately, if one examines the policy agenda of the Howard government over the last 12 years (and indeed Howards’ personal political agenda over the last 20), it would appear that exploiting social divisions is precisely what this government is about.

All that aside, it has to be said that in this debate and this situation, the Lebanese (and to a lesser extent Muslims of other cultures) youth certainly aren’t helping themselves either. Naturally, it would be a gross generalisation to claim (as some commentators in the media have) that all Lebanese/Muslim men are ‘troublemakers’. Unfortunately, there is a small but very visible minority giving their wider community a ‘bad name’, and said community seems reluctant to reel these trouble-makers in. Partially of course this is precisely because of the perceived ‘racism’ they feel, as all migrant groups do at some point, from the wider ‘Australian’ community. They feel victimised, and in many cases are simply unwilling to entertain the belief that ‘their’ sons could be capable of the terrible things ‘we’ accuse them of.

The problem of course, is that some of the aforementioned minority; such as convicted gang rapist Bilal Skaff and his cohorts, the unidentified gang who attacked the volunteer lifesavers at Cronulla two weeks ago and others, have been up to some truly awful things. To give you an example which directly impacts on my own life, earlier this year my lovely fiancé IG went to Europe for a month. Whilst in Spain she too was attacked a gang of Middle-Eastern men, and only managed to escape thanks to a combination of kung-fu, quick thinking, and glassing her lead assailant in the face. Whilst it’s clear she managed to avoid gang rape, she’s naturally reluctant to talk about her ordeal, so I will probably never know for sure to what extent her first attacker managed to assault her before his friends got there and she managed to escape. Regardless of ‘how far’ this first cowardly arsehole actually got, the point is he attacked my fiancé and tried to force her into having non-consensual intercourse with him. For that, he deserves to rot in hell, as do all rapists and attempted rapists. It’s precisely this sort of behaviour which makes it so easy, and so tempting, for otherwise ‘tolerant’ people like you and me to start hating young men ‘of middle eastern appearance’ as a group.

The thing is though – I simply can’t do it kids. I can’t. I’m not a “hater”, to borrow a phrase from one of my favourite hip-hop bands, Australia’s own 1200 Techniques. Don’t get me wrong – I definitely hate the fucktards who attacked my baby in Spain, as surely as I hate the little (Slovak) shit who sexually abused me a few months after I first came to Australia with my parents. However I hate these people as individuals, and not as representatives of any particular “group”, save perhaps the group of “scumfuck sexual predators”. I don’t ‘do’ hate based on race, creed or other such generalisations – the only ‘hate’ I have is based on demonstrated, individual, abhorrent behaviour. In other words -

Just because some middle-eastern men are rapists, doesn’t mean all middle-eastern men are rapists. Just as some Anglo teenagers beating a pair of innocent Arab men to a bloody pulp on the train at Cronulla station doesn’t make all Anglo teenagers viscous, violent racists.

I know some people may see this attitude as naive. Perhaps I’m “backward” for trying to cling to the multi-cultural dream. Or perhaps only ‘ignorant migrants’ like myself and my generation of ‘wog kids’ actually fell for those great Aussie ‘myths’ like “a fair go” and “we come from different places, but we’re all Australian”. Nonetheless, I would hate to think this is actually the case. I would like to think that the Australia I grew up in, or at least thought I did, isn’t dead or never existed at all – it’s simply been forgotten in the heat of the moment, as tempers have flared on both sides of the current conflict, egged on by everyone from Alan Jones, to Stormfront, to various gang-leaders and the Prime Minister himself, and his governments’ 12 year reign of divisive public policy and public statements.

I have to believe that Australians of all ages and backgrounds can come together and work these issues through. That I’m not the only one who is prepared to stand up and say “this senseless violence isn’t what our great country is about”.

I want to, and have to believe what I always thought generations of Australians always knew – namely that ;

“The beach is for everyone

For my own sake, and (clichéd as it may sound) for the sake of my future children.

I’m not Derryn Hinch, and that’s my view.

Listening To: Goodbye Country, Hello Nightclub : Groove Armada

Current Horn Factor :

Horn Factor = Me STILL so hoooorney, me love you long time !

So I’ve mentioned previously the pressure to look good, now that I’m living in Bondi – Sydney’s epicentre for well tanned, superbly muscled surfer dudes. In a serious bid to start trying to get back in shape, I went and bought myself a new bicycle a few weeks ago. Check it out -

Pimp My Ride

Isn’t is sweeeet ? Shopping around online, I managed to pick up the sexy bit of engineering you see above brand new for less than I paid two or three years ago for a second-hand bike with fůcked up gears and dodgey brakes. To date my riding is going well, and despite not being a morning person I’m actually managing to get up at 6am and go for a ride most mornings. On the weekend I also managed to finally motivate myself to pick up the free-weights again after going for an extended ride, and topped that all off with a bit of session using our flatmates punching bag. Buffness here we come ;-)

Now that the weather is getting warmer, IG and I have also been going to the beach most weekends. We had a lovely picnic the other day at Coogee, overlooking the beach and the headland, complete with good wine, an assortment of great cheeses and stellar conversation as usual. “Choice bro” as the Kiwis would say :-) One thing that I’m finding a bit perplexing at the moment though is the thong situation …

Basically, I need a new pair of thongs to wear to the beach. Now for our American readers, I’m not referring to the item of female underwear we here in Australia call a “G-String”. I am of course talking about the quintessential piece of antipodean footwear which I believe you call “sandals”, and the Brits designate “flip-flops”. What I want is a cheap, nasty, generic $2 pair of paper-thin rubber-soled ‘double pluggers’ made in China, Vietnam or an equivelant third-world country which I can pick up at my local thrift store. Surely not too much to ask, is it ?

Last time I purchased a pair of said no-name thongs for the princely sum of $2 was a few years ago in Parramatta. For those unfamiliar with Sydney’s geography, let me tell you Parramatta is an inland suburb in Western Sydney which is nowhere NEAR a frikkin beach nor any similar body of water. Sure … you can go to Parramatta Lakes … but this in the middle of bush reserve where one of my highschool friends once almost stepped on a red-bellied black-snake but for my quick reflexes. Not exactly thong-friendly.

I’m telling you this because I niavely assumed that living in Bondi, finding a similar pair of thongs at my local discount store wouldn’t be a problem. How wrong I was ! Logic of course would tell you that if you can buy cheap, nasty thongs at a cheap, nasty store nowhere near the beach, finding an equivelant pair in an equivelant store in Bondi would be a breeze. Nyet, nyet, nyet ! I’ve been to every bargain and convenience store in the Bondi Junction mall strip, and a fair few down at the beach, along with most of the beach front souvenier stores. Most of them simply don’t have thongs at all … the few that do have hideous patterned ones obviously aimed mostly at the female market and costing at least $6.95

I could of course duck into any of numerous surf-wear shops and pay $15-30 for a pair of suitably branded ‘designer thongs’ … but who in their right mind would do that, except a tourist or a tragic fashion victim ? We’re talking thongs people, not fØcking Manolo Blahnik stillettos …

so why the F#^R&*#$ can’t I find a cheap, ordinary, no-frills pair ‘o thongs within a 20km radius of the sodding beach ?

Tell me that, coz I wanna know ! Gaaaaaaaaah !

Thongs Update: (13/10/05) OK, so I caved and got meself a pair of thongs from Target (our equivelant of Wall-Mart) for $6 a pair. Granted, they might be better than the $2 pair I got last time … the sole is about as thick as my pinkie finger, as opposed to being the thickness of a (jamless) pikelet. But it’s the whole question of principle … I shouldn’t have to pay six dollars for a pair of measly blue and white, basic flip flops. Oh yeah … and the Target I got them from is @ Macquarie Centre, just near my work. Which … surprise, surprise … is nowhere near the fekking beach again !

Listening To: La Sexorcisto : White Zombie

Current Horn Factor :

Horn Factor = Not too bad at all :)

OK gang it’s official … I’m finally free of the annoying, overweight Kiwi flatmate and her equally annoying, overweight cats. Yaaaaay ! I’d been ferrying small carloads back and forth all week since last weekends engagement dinner for IG and I @ St.George Leagues, and on Saturday the removalists came to shift the majority of my remaining stuff to Bondi. Thereafter I spent the remainder of the weekend loading up my car with the few left-over odds and ends, and cleaning up the areas of the old apartment ostensibly under my control. In the end I think my old bedroom and bathroom ended up looking better than they had when I’d moved in. Which is natural I suppose – I’m an excellent frikkin flatmate, let me tell you !

We also took some time out with IG to go see Wedding Crashers on Sunday, which was absolutely hilarious (hell … I might even post a review depending on how slow work is today !) , and to hang out at the beach on Saturday morning. Excellent timing on the move, if I do say so myself. Spring has just sprung, and I’m ready to work on my tan again … so methinks I’ll be hitting the beach a lot this year :) One realisation I’ve been carefully trying to avoid, but which hit me full-force on Saturday till I couldn’t ignore it anymore is that Bondi is seriously full of good looking people. It makes sense; my fiancé lives there after all – but it does mean I definitely need to get back on the DB Workout Plan and shed those winter kilos quicksmart !

It’s an indesputable fact that Lisa likes surfie boys (and mediterranian boys, corporate boys … lots of different types of good looking guys hehe), and Bondi is full of excellent specimens in peak physical condition. I can’t afford to get complacent just because we’re engaged and as of this weekend living together, and being in a suburb which boasts such a high percentage of good looking competition, I’ve got no option but to get back to being as buff (if not buffer) as I was when we first met. The first phase of the plan involves getting up an extra half hour early to do some morning jogging. Will try to start that tommorrow. It also involves starting to use my weights again … which may involve me sourcing a mirror of some sort. Perhaps I’ll ‘steal’ the one from the ‘spare’ bedroom in my parents house, since they haven’t got a tennant in yet.

The next phase of the plan involves buying myself a pushbike again, since the fittest I’ve ever been was in Sweden when I was riding everywhere on a regular basis. This relies on my ex-flatmate paying me back my bond ASAP. I’d like to get a new bike for a change instead of a second-hand one, but depending on how badly the Kiwi wench tries to stooge me on outstaning bills, I might have to resort to the Trading Post again. We’ll see … one things for sure … none of this is gonna be easy ! It’s going to be well worth it though, to be able to stroll the streets amongst all the Bondians hand-in-hand with my fiancé, head held high knowing I’ve faced the competion and I’ve prevailed. Bah … and my parents think I lack a competitive streak !

Bring it on I say … it’s gonna be a great summer ! :)

Listening To: Something For Your Mind : V/A (Zoth Ommog)

Back in our under-grad days, before weblogs existed, my best friend wrote a rant called “Declining the Beach Invitation”. It resonated deeply at the time – I was a beach-shunning goth, and she was a beach-shunning indie-chick. In the last few weeks, the beach (and my relationship to it) has come up in a few discussions with my girlfriend, and on Friday Wegg started an interesting thread on her blog (‘Ocean Girl Goes to The Mountains’) about the beach, your proximity to it, and the art hanging on your walls. All of which has led me to ponder the beach, and what it means to me.

Today I thought I’d share some of these ponderings with those of you who are interested, and revisit my friends ‘zine article in the process …

I was born in 1977 in Prague, the capital city of the small land-locked European country then known as Czechoslovakia. The closest thing I saw to the ocean in my first year of life were the dirty banks of the river Vltava, on which Prague was first contructed back in medieval times. When I was one year old however, my father won a posting as trade attache to the Czech embassy in Pakistan. We relocated to Karachi in ’78 as a result, and I got my first few years exposure to the beach, courtesy of the balmy Arabian Sea. I don’t recall much from those days of course, being so young, but I do remember we used to go to the beach a lot with my parents and their friends, and these were some of our happiest times.

My mother and the other embassy wives would lie sunbaking in the tropical heat in their string bikinis, unable to go topless because of the ever-present threat of local Muslim men who would often come to the beach to gape at these ‘Western’ women flaunting their shockingly bare flesh. The men would drink beer or hard liquour (though the latter was of course discouraged), crack jokes and cook meat on a fire. We kids would play soccer or cricket, splash around and chase eachother on the sand or in the surf. Sometimes a Suadi or Iranian trading boat would be pulled up on the beach, and if we were lucky we’d get a ride on a camel and once or twice a sinewy Arabian pony.

Other times we’d all watch enraptured as snake-charmers performed their ages-old ritual on the sand, or watch as they released mongoose to chase cobra over the dunes. Once a year, during turtle hatching season, we’d go to the beach before daybreak to watch these ancient, yet fragile creatures slowly drag themselves out of the ocean, and deposit strings of eggs like sticky pearls in hollows they would dig out of the sand. They’d sit on them for a few hours, and then, almost dehydrated, they would painfully make their way back into the water as their leathery eggs hatched and scores of tiny, perfectly formed baby turtles scurried over the sand, sometimes into the water but often-times in the wrong direction. Fascinated I’d pick up these misguided turtle-ings, look them in the eye, then put them down gently nudge them back in the right direction towards the sea.

Karachi also had a beach set aside for the ‘hulks’ of old freighters and military ships which had been allowed to run aground, so that the locals could gradually strip them of metal and all other usable materials to re-use and resell, leaving the shells to rust over years in the oil-stained tide. My parents have a video which must have been shot in the very early 80′s, probably by the communist-party ‘ideological advisor’ to the embassy (since he would have been the only one able to afford the expense of something as ‘cutting edge’ as a video camera), of our visit to this beach. I still remember being completely enthralled by the sight of the huge, pitted orange-metal bulks of the rusted freighters and warships, and begging our parents to be allowed to climb inside and explore with my friend, Peder from the Hungarian embassy. Alas, the smiling Pakistanis in charge of the wrecks told us through the interpreter it was “too dangerous for children to play inside”.

In 1984, my dads ‘tour’ was up and we were slated to go back home. Back then Czechoslovakia was still united in communism, rather than the twin democracies of Czech and Slovak republics it is today, so my parents decided to ‘defect’ to the West in the good old ‘cold-war’ tradition. In their choice of Australia as our new homeland, I’m sure its beaches and my love of the ocean played at least a small part. Unfortunately when we arrived in Sydney, we were too poor to settle in a seaside suburb, and started off living in migrant flats in Epping, moving to our first house in Seven Hills in Sydney’s western suburbs after a year.

In Karachi the beach had a half hour drive away, we’d always gone with friends in a big group, and embassy work-hours the world over are short besides, so getting there was never a drama. Given where we lived in Sydney, and given that 20 years ago none of the motorways which Sydney-siders now take for granted existed, the beach was suddenly a good 90 minutes drive away, if not more. Living in a new country, my parents suddenly had few friends and couldn’t even afford the petrol to make the trip (indeed, we didn’t have a car for the first six months until my dad got a company car as a salesman flogging CB radios). The beach was no longer a routine outing, and became a rare, weekend-only pleasure instead.

The years went on and my parents became busier. Mum got a job in the second year which left her exhausted, and just wanting to relax at home on weekends. We got a second car and mum learnt to drive, but only if it wasn’t too far from home or she made the journey on a regular basis. Family outings to the beach became less and less frequent. After going through a few jobs, dad started working his way up through Sebel furniture and later SGS, and we started being able to afford holidays. So we’d hop in the car during long weekends and school holidays, and journey outside of Sydney. One year we decided to go to Port Stephens on the advice of some family friends, and fell in love with it. After that we tried to go to Port Stephens at least once a year for a week by the ocean … but this more or less replaced going to the beach in Sydney altogether.

A few years of this and I hit my ‘awkward teen’ phase. Being the insecure kid that I was, I didn’t want to be seen with my parents, didn’t want to spend time with them, and started doing anything I could to avoid our annual trip to Port. ‘Embarassed’ by my parents and their ‘woggy’ friends, and embarassed by my own teenage body, I started to hate going to the beach, and to indentify it with my ‘niave’ childhood. I was still avoiding the beach and my family, and generally hating my own looks, when I started uni and hooked up with my first girlfriend. She was a Greek girl, and her migrant parents and relatives, like mine, had raised their kids going on regular beach outings to the South Coast and the like.

By the time we’d met though, Maria had become a lapsed beach-goer like I had. Listening to KMFDM, Souxsie Sioux, Caligula & Def-FX, wearing black eyeliner and PVC, we became birds of a feather, feeding eachothers ‘darkness’ in Sydney’s goth scene. Although she lived at Sydenham, we had a shared history of family beach memories, so we’d often go to Bondi or Coogee, La Perouse or Brighton Le Sands. We’d make out in cars looking out over the ocean to the oil refinery at Kernell, we’d eat seafood at Brighton or we’d just to sit on the beach talking about nothing and everything. But always at night, when the suns rays couldn’t strike us and the cruel eyes of beautiful, tanned beach-goers couldn’t judge us.

We broke up after 6 months, and although I started seeing a girl who initially lived with her parents in Ocean Road at Bondi, just behind where the KFC used to be on the corner, I pretty much stopped going to the beach altogether at that point – too many painful memories. My new girl moved to Drummoyne, and together we shunned the beach like all ‘self-respecting’ goths do, with only a few night-time trips to Bondi here and there. I found I didn’t miss it. A year on, I was offered a place in our university overseas exchange program. After some deliberation I accepted it, and moved to Sweden in August ’97.

I lived in Uppsala for a year, five minutes walk from the river (Fyriss) which runs through the center of town. After 6 months there, and having come back to Sydney over Christmas to discover my Drummoyne girlfriend was sleeping with another guy, I hooked up with a Swedish girl who’d never seen the ocean. For the next 6 months we’d sit by the edge of the river, frozen at first but gradually thawing out as the seasons progressed, talking about politics, music, relationships – and talking about the beach, and what it’s like to live in a city where going to the beach is an actual possibility.

I got back to Sydney and spent another semester finishing my degree. I went to the beach a few times – mostly Collaroy, Narrabeen & Palm, and tried to date a couple of girls including an aussie I’d studied with in Sweden who lived at Coogee, and an Italian goth girl I’d known for a few years who lived at Yowie Bay. For various reasons none of these panned out, so looking at my post-grad options, I decided to move to Melbourne to study multimedia.

I arrived in Melbourne in January ’99, and ended up living there for two years. I’d started thinking about myself and my lifestyle diffierently whilst in Sweden, finally beginning to accept myself for who I was, and trying to repair my relationship with my parents. This process continued in the two years I was in Melbourne on my own, first studying then working, and meeting a girl I ended up seeing for three years (including 18 months long-distance after I moved back to Sydney in 2001). I started to miss the Sydney beaches again while living in Victoria. My then-girlfriend and I would go down to St.Kilda or Brighton … in the day-time … or we’d go for a drive down the Great Ocean Road to Torquay & Geelong.

I finally moved back to Sydney in 2001. Although I was less than thrilled about the move itself – I’d had to make because I’d lost my job and run out of money; I remember I was really excited on the first weekend back when I took myself off to sunbake and swim at Palm Beach. I lived at my parents house in Castle Hill for a year while free-lancing as a designer, before moving to St.Leonards. I went to Bronte a few times with an old uni friend, and I even found myself going to Bondi beach thanks to a client for a CD-ROM project I was working on, and whose house was a stones throw from the Old Southhead Road fire station.

In between then and now, I’ve lived in a few different places, studied again, done a few different jobs, been in two relationships, dated and been single for 8 months. I’ve gone to the beach on off, worked out religiously, visited solariums, been a fat slob and bounced back – all without ‘accepting the beach’ invitation in its full glory, and all that it entails. In all that time, I never really thought about the beach, and what it means to me. It was nice to have the option to go – sure, but I never really thought about the happy times I used to have as a kid at the beach with my family. Coming up to summer 2004, I started this blog, lost my job at the medical recruitment firm I was working at with an ex, and moved back to Castle Hill for a few months because mum had arrived from overseas and the house was vacant as their tenants had just moved out.

Then one fateful day in December, a week after starting back at the company I’d been working for prior to the recruitment firm, I met a lovely lass from Bondi named Lisa. The rest, as they say, is history. I moved to Artarmon, and spent the Christmas / Boxing Day long weekend with my parents down in Port Stephens. It was fantastic … like coming home after a long time away. True – I got an echo of my old teenage embarassment at one point, when my dad started parading around with his sunburn (they’d already spent a week there before I arrived), vodka-gut and underwear-like swimmers near the roadway … but as I drove away from Port later that day I called both my parents and thanked them for a great weekend, and apologised for acting a bit embarassed earlier in the day – something I could never have done as a teenager.

That weekend is what finally got me thinking about the beach, and its meaning to me. We’ve been to ocean a few times with Lisa, although it’s been too cold so we’ve only ‘done’ the beach properly once so far. We’ve talked about the beach in an abstract way, and I’m sure I’ve left my girlfriend with the impression Bondi isn’t my favourite (which is true – too many backpackers). However, I hope I haven’t left her with the impression I’m ‘not really a beach person’. True – from the ‘awkward teen years’ till 2001 I stopped being a fan of the day-time beach experience. However, I could never resist the beach invitation entirely, and slowly for the last four years the beach has been working its way back into my heart, as surely as sand works its way into your bum crack despite your boardshorts. Now I can truly say I’m looking forward to spending summer baking with my Bondi babe on the sand … finally, after all these years I’m ready to accept the beach invitation again like I did when I was a wee lad !

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