Beach Ball

I grew up near the beach, and here we are at Mum and Dad's for Christmas (and any robbers who are thinking about ripping off my house, there's nothing for you there and our VERY feisty Russian neighbour is looking after things, even going so far as to interrogate frequent visitor Steev who made the mistake of just popping 'round. So fuck off).

I've always looked at those beautiful brown skinny girls at the beach and wondered what they thought when they looked in the mirror. When they were buying togs, for instance. I saw a pretty (no comma) large woman in a black tankini there today and was wondering what she'd thought, just in a wondering kind of way. Then she turned around and turned out to be wearing a g-string. Part of me wanted to punch the air for cellulite pride, but the rest of me was hiding in enormous speedos and board shorts and thinking she should have taken a mate with a profound committment to honesty and a tough hide about their friendship shopping with her.

Today we went to Caves Beach, one of the magic-est beaches I know, particularly for little kids. Long, gentle slope into the water. Heaps of hard-packed wet sand for castles, walking, kicking an ENORMOUS beach ball. Caves, of course. And the best. surf. announcer. ever.

... (tannoy crackles) To the hard board rider in between the flags. You're in the wrong place, mate, move immediately out of the flagged area. To all the dudes riding soft boards at the Southern end of the flags, you've probably all got the ability to be riding there, but there is a dangerous rip near you and you need to be thinking about the judgements about their own safety that people might be making on the basis of your behaviour. Thank you."

Why did I ever leave this place? Even if there are no bloody buggery jobs?