Mink Elliott
Copyright (C) 2012 Mink Elliott
Chapter 1
I shriek as a globular white wodge seems to come out of nowhere, hurling itself
'Watch out!'
'Anyway,' he flashes me a disarming grin, 'having a bird poo on you is good luck, you know.'
'Well, we're going to need every bird in Sydney to poo on us in that case. Daily.' I grin back as we walk down Didgeridoo Drive to get to the big grassy verge overlooking Bondi Beach.
'I promise you it'll be different this time, Roxy,' he says, grabbing Joey's hand again so they can carry on with their synchronised skipping, laughing and squealing as they go. 'This time moving will be the best thing we've ever done!'
'This time moving will be the best thing we've ever done!'
Well, things certainly feel different. For a start, it's like the footpath is virtually melting beneath my flip-flopped feet on this blisteringly hot Australia Day bank holiday, and I look around me, a little stunned and self-conscious at the staggering amount of tanned, firm flesh on show. And even though I'm quite covered up by comparison in long shorts and a T-shirt, at least I've abandoned my usual suspicion of shoes that expose rather than hide your feet and put on the appropriate casual footwear for The Big Aussie Day Out Down The Beach: bright white Havaianas flip-flops ' or thongs as they call them here. You can imagine my surprise and creeping horror when the surfwear-shop assistant said I didn't need a changing room, I could try on a thong right there by the checkout. I spluttered at the suggestion. Me? In a G-string? In broad daylight? Completely sober on the shop floor? Oh, the humanity.
But because my toes haven't seen daylight for yonks (and I haven't seen my toes for ages, either, come to think of it), now I feel strangely . . . liberated. Maybe it's also got something to do with my brilliant all-white outfit. I decided this morning to do away with my usual head-totoe all-black ensembles and instead opt for white, as a sort of sartorial nod to optimism and looking on the bright side; my newly adopted attitudes. I sigh and wonder whether this is the beginning of a beautiful new friendship with white. And my feet. My feet, Jack, Joey and I find a relatively uncrowded spot of grass to sit on and gaze at the sea and sand, drinking in the holiday, fun atmosphere, the hot sun beating down on us.
There are happy, laughing families playing Frisbee with their excited, barking dogs; the far-off sizzle of sausages, steaks and onion rings cooking on industrialsized barbecues mingles with the soothing sound of waves crashing ashore; the heady smell of good times and salt and vinegar chips fills the thick, humid air.
'Isn't this beautiful,' Jack states, rather than asks. 'Come on, Joey, let's go and get some food!' I watch them gambol off into the haze and stretch my legs out in front of me. I lean on my elbows, close my eyes and gently ease my head back, pointing my smothered-in factor-150-seriously-wilting-English-rose face to the Australian sun.
Taking a long, deep breath in, I try to clasp my hands together over my stomach, but I can't ' there's simply too much of me to get my hands around. Because, unfortunately, I'm just not like those women who snap back into shape, squeezing into their size 6 jeans five minutes after popping a baby out. My genes ' and sweet shops and supermarket pastry aisles ' have always had it in for me, I'm afraid. So after I had Joey, there was no snapping, no bouncing and certainly no pinging back into my pre-pregnancy shape. More like blancmangeing back.
Which I've been trying to rectify (with very little success) ever since the last time we moved ' from London to Riverside, a small village in Berkshire, when Joey was ten months old. I ended up feeling so isolated, so lonely and so frustrated with Jack that I was fairly forced to set up the Pissed-Off Parents Club at the local pub, where likeminded souls struggling with the whole parent thing would meet once a week.
My shoulders slump at the memory. But this time moving will have been the right thing to do and we will have moved to the right place, I tell myself, putting my shoulders back and pointing my face towards the sun, thus assuming a more upbeat, positive pose. This time things will be totally different because . . . um . . . well . . .
I hear Joey and Jack approaching and open my eyes, just in time to see a massive hot dog being thrust in my face.
'For you, Mummy,' says my sweet little girl, settling herself on the grass next to me.
'Thank you, darling.' I sit up, crossing my legs. I glance over at Jack and, despite the fact he's seriously eyeballing the Sports Illustrated bikini-clad supermodel beach volleyball team bouncing about in front of us on the sand, I smile. Because I love his outlook, his enthusiasm and his certainty, I really do. That's what persuaded me to move here, after all ' the infectious excitement of Jack in Big Plan mode.
It's just that we've been here for nearly a month and I'm still not convinced. I don't feel at home here yet. I need a sign, positive proof that everything's going to be great, something solid to suggest that things will be different from now on. I squint as I stare at the glaring sun, to let it know I mean business, and say softly, quietly: 'Go on, sun or universe or whoever's in charge up there ' give me a sign.'
Nothing happens, so I look back to my lunch and take a big sniff of sausage, two sauces and white bread roll. My mouth starts to water ' blimey, even my eyes start to water. Its deliciousness just about totally takes over all my senses and I close my eyes to really savour the moment. I open my mouth wide and take my first delectable bite.
A microsecond later, I hear the unmistakeable spurt and splodge of tomato sauce being fast ejected all down my front and even on to my feet. I stop mid-mastication and open my eyes.
And there they are, bright red and dark brown blobs of barbecue and tomato sauce spattered all over my top, my shorts and my brand spanking new trendy white flip-flops.
'Oh, great,' I groan.
'Hoo!' Jack hoots, nudging Joey, pointing at me. 'Hot dog POO!'
'Yucky!' shouts Joey, joining her dad in laughing at the latest misfortune to befall Mummy.
The more I grimace, the more they fall about cackling hysterically, clutching their stomachs for fear their ribs will break. Eventually, I manage to wipe myself down with about a hundred tissues and wonder whether this is it ' whether spilled hot dog sauce is the sign I've been looking for.
And as the seagulls swoop and squawk overhead and the sound of children's laughter fills my ears, I can't help muttering to myself, 'Thanks, universe. Thanks a bunch.'
'Well, we're going to need every bird in Sydney to poo on us in that case. Daily.' I grin back as we walk down Didgeridoo Drive to get to the big grassy verge overlooking Bondi Beach.
'I promise you it'll be different this time, Roxy,' he says, grabbing Joey's hand again so they can carry on with their synchronised skipping, laughing and squealing as they go. 'This time moving will be the best thing we've ever done!'
'This time moving will be the best thing we've ever done!'
Well, things certainly feel different. For a start, it's like the footpath is virtually melting beneath my flip-flopped feet on this blisteringly hot Australia Day bank holiday, and I look around me, a little stunned and self-conscious at the staggering amount of tanned, firm flesh on show. And even though I'm quite covered up by comparison in long shorts and a T-shirt, at least I've abandoned my usual suspicion of shoes that expose rather than hide your feet and put on the appropriate casual footwear for The Big Aussie Day Out Down The Beach: bright white Havaianas flip-flops ' or thongs as they call them here. You can imagine my surprise and creeping horror when the surfwear-shop assistant said I didn't need a changing room, I could try on a thong right there by the checkout. I spluttered at the suggestion. Me? In a G-string? In broad daylight? Completely sober on the shop floor? Oh, the humanity.
But because my toes haven't seen daylight for yonks (and I haven't seen my toes for ages, either, come to think of it), now I feel strangely . . . liberated. Maybe it's also got something to do with my brilliant all-white outfit. I decided this morning to do away with my usual head-totoe all-black ensembles and instead opt for white, as a sort of sartorial nod to optimism and looking on the bright side; my newly adopted attitudes. I sigh and wonder whether this is the beginning of a beautiful new friendship with white. And my feet. My feet, Jack, Joey and I find a relatively uncrowded spot of grass to sit on and gaze at the sea and sand, drinking in the holiday, fun atmosphere, the hot sun beating down on us.
There are happy, laughing families playing Frisbee with their excited, barking dogs; the far-off sizzle of sausages, steaks and onion rings cooking on industrialsized barbecues mingles with the soothing sound of waves crashing ashore; the heady smell of good times and salt and vinegar chips fills the thick, humid air.
'Isn't this beautiful,' Jack states, rather than asks. 'Come on, Joey, let's go and get some food!' I watch them gambol off into the haze and stretch my legs out in front of me. I lean on my elbows, close my eyes and gently ease my head back, pointing my smothered-in factor-150-seriously-wilting-English-rose face to the Australian sun.
Taking a long, deep breath in, I try to clasp my hands together over my stomach, but I can't ' there's simply too much of me to get my hands around. Because, unfortunately, I'm just not like those women who snap back into shape, squeezing into their size 6 jeans five minutes after popping a baby out. My genes ' and sweet shops and supermarket pastry aisles ' have always had it in for me, I'm afraid. So after I had Joey, there was no snapping, no bouncing and certainly no pinging back into my pre-pregnancy shape. More like blancmangeing back.
Which I've been trying to rectify (with very little success) ever since the last time we moved ' from London to Riverside, a small village in Berkshire, when Joey was ten months old. I ended up feeling so isolated, so lonely and so frustrated with Jack that I was fairly forced to set up the Pissed-Off Parents Club at the local pub, where likeminded souls struggling with the whole parent thing would meet once a week.
My shoulders slump at the memory. But this time moving will have been the right thing to do and we will have moved to the right place, I tell myself, putting my shoulders back and pointing my face towards the sun, thus assuming a more upbeat, positive pose. This time things will be totally different because . . . um . . . well . . .
I hear Joey and Jack approaching and open my eyes, just in time to see a massive hot dog being thrust in my face.
'For you, Mummy,' says my sweet little girl, settling herself on the grass next to me.
'Thank you, darling.' I sit up, crossing my legs. I glance over at Jack and, despite the fact he's seriously eyeballing the Sports Illustrated bikini-clad supermodel beach volleyball team bouncing about in front of us on the sand, I smile. Because I love his outlook, his enthusiasm and his certainty, I really do. That's what persuaded me to move here, after all ' the infectious excitement of Jack in Big Plan mode.
It's just that we've been here for nearly a month and I'm still not convinced. I don't feel at home here yet. I need a sign, positive proof that everything's going to be great, something solid to suggest that things will be different from now on. I squint as I stare at the glaring sun, to let it know I mean business, and say softly, quietly: 'Go on, sun or universe or whoever's in charge up there ' give me a sign.'
Nothing happens, so I look back to my lunch and take a big sniff of sausage, two sauces and white bread roll. My mouth starts to water ' blimey, even my eyes start to water. Its deliciousness just about totally takes over all my senses and I close my eyes to really savour the moment. I open my mouth wide and take my first delectable bite.
A microsecond later, I hear the unmistakeable spurt and splodge of tomato sauce being fast ejected all down my front and even on to my feet. I stop mid-mastication and open my eyes.
And there they are, bright red and dark brown blobs of barbecue and tomato sauce spattered all over my top, my shorts and my brand spanking new trendy white flip-flops.
'Oh, great,' I groan.
'Hoo!' Jack hoots, nudging Joey, pointing at me. 'Hot dog POO!'
'Yucky!' shouts Joey, joining her dad in laughing at the latest misfortune to befall Mummy.
The more I grimace, the more they fall about cackling hysterically, clutching their stomachs for fear their ribs will break. Eventually, I manage to wipe myself down with about a hundred tissues and wonder whether this is it ' whether spilled hot dog sauce is the sign I've been looking for.
And as the seagulls swoop and squawk overhead and the sound of children's laughter fills my ears, I can't help muttering to myself, 'Thanks, universe. Thanks a bunch.'
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down straight towards the top of Jack's baseball-capped head. Things go all slow motion, the screeching seagulls the only sound I can hear as Jack stops dead in his tracks, looks over his shoulder at me and then up into the bright blue sky.
SPLAT.
'Ooh.' I wince. 'Bullseye.' Joey looks up at her daddy, her concerned mouth open wide.
'Uh-oh,' she says. 'Are you OK, Daddy?' Jack laughs his manly, confident laugh and ruffles Joey's hair with one hand while the other wipes a small speck of seagull poo off his cheek.
'Not to worry,' he chirrups, whipping off his baseball cap to inspect it. 'Most of it's on this old thing. High time I binned it anyway. And luckily, I just so happen to have this on me . . . 'He pulls another cap with BONDI emblazoned across it out of his jeans' back pocket, arranges it on his head, gets Joey's beaming seal of approval and turns to face me.
SPLAT.
'Ooh.' I wince. 'Bullseye.' Joey looks up at her daddy, her concerned mouth open wide.
'Uh-oh,' she says. 'Are you OK, Daddy?' Jack laughs his manly, confident laugh and ruffles Joey's hair with one hand while the other wipes a small speck of seagull poo off his cheek.
'Not to worry,' he chirrups, whipping off his baseball cap to inspect it. 'Most of it's on this old thing. High time I binned it anyway. And luckily, I just so happen to have this on me . . . 'He pulls another cap with BONDI emblazoned across it out of his jeans' back pocket, arranges it on his head, gets Joey's beaming seal of approval and turns to face me.
