God’s Own Country

Many moons ago, Husband and I lived in Bondi. Husband loved Bondi. He swam at Icebergs every morning. He breakfasted at Bondi Tratt. He promenaded on the boardwalk. Then Sprog 1 arrived and the 50 stairs to our apartment lost their lustre. I made him move to the suburbs. Or, as I prefer to call them, God’s Own Country. I don’t think Husband’s ever quite forgiven me. I never liked Bondi as much as Husband. I burn easily and I’m not overly fond of old mattresses and other discarded backpacker accoutrements adorning my nature strip. These days, my limited beach hours are spent at Freshwater. But Husband had a hankering to see Bondi again. After four years cocooned in God’s Own Country, Campbell Parade looked like Kings Cross By The Sea. Block after block of cheap shops and cafes. Oh, and a tattoo parlour with a big window so you could watch guys wincing as the needles went in. (Actually, that was kind of fascinating.) There used to be glammy restaurants, cool homewares, Mambo stores and stuff. All gone, or hiding in the back streets. We did stumble across one yummy homewares store a few blocks back, but as I stood on the threshold the owner emerged sobbing and shrieking “fuck” a lot because the rangers had fined her $500 for having her goods on the footpath. After helping carry her offending chairs inside, I left her to her keening, gazing forelornly over my shoulder at the shell light-fittings as I beat my hasty retreat. I headed to the beach for a swim with 50,000 backpackers, all throwing footballs and themselves around indiscriminantly. Well, I say “swim”, but it was more of a “stand” in knee-deep water. Afterwards, we went to Icebergs (the cheaper floor) for a drink and to reminisce about the good old days. Icebergs – whether you’re sitting in the cheap or the exxy seats – has divine views. As is the modern way, we MMSed photos around to show we were having a good time. Lovely as Icebergs was, I wasn’t sad to leave Bondi and return to God’s Own Country. God’s Own Country is nice, leafy, sedate, predictable. It might not have the vibe and energy of the east. Or the fashion sense. It certainly doesn’t have the small bars (though heaven knows how they survive with their 22 seats, 2 chefs and two bartenders …).  But it’s familiar. It’s home. And the only mattresses on the nature strip are during the council clean-ups. Damn good booty at those too. None of that clapped-out backpacker trash. Sprog 2 has scored particularly well at them: scooters, pool noodles, dolly prams … but her favourite is still Big Bear (yes, yes, I boiled him in the washing machine first). Big Bear is very large and very resilient, he’s currently jammed in the freezer, having his dust mites iced. He’ll be back in her loving, eczema-riddled arms again soon. God bless.

DIET LOG: Fair to middling. Must try harder this week.

WHAT THE SCALES SAID: 69.6kg.

TONIGHT’S DINNER: Leftover lamb shank curry. Not spicy but Sprog friendly. Just fry and chopped onion until soft. Stir in 1/4 of a jar of Patak’s Korma Paste (try their Rogan Josh paste for a little more kick), 1 can diced tomatoes and 100ml of water. Put in slow-cooker. Brown lamb shanks. Add to slow cooker. Simmer for 6 hours. Add a few splashes of cream for the last few minutes. Serve with rice and veg.