I can feel something in my waters

I’ve never been good with change. I like things done a certain way. It really bothers me when they’re not.

I’m trying to get better at that …

And, despite it supposedly being harder to change as you get older, I do seem to be mellowing.

A year ago, I wrote a blog post called Not Drowning, Cheering. It was about my ambivalence to water and went something like this …

Have I ever told you the story about the boyfriend who sent me a bouquet with a card that said: “For a Piscean who doesn’t like water … some flowers to put in it”?

It was an unexpectedly romantic gesture considering he’d recently discovered a jiffy bag filled with a rainbow assortment of condoms in my flat (for a story I was writing on prophylactics for Cosmopolitan magazine, I swear) … but I digress …

Anyway, the bloke in question was my revenge romance after ex-Husband left me in the mid-90s to “find himself” in South East Asia. He told me not to wait for him and disappeared for 8 months. So I followed his advice and pounced on the first man in sight. It was a terrible mistake and the poor fellow was christened “Happy, Slappy Mal” by ex-Husband upon his eventual return (he didn’t come back for me, mind, but because he was best man at his brother’s wedding, but we dovetailed lazily into romance again anyway).

Sorry, I digress again …

Back to the hating water bit. I don’t like drinking it and I’m not keen on swimming in it, which is odd for a fish.

About the only time you’ll tempt me into the stuff is if the water temp is around 30 degrees. Or the outside temp is around 35.

My parents spent thousands of dollars on swimming lessons throughout my childhood to no avail. It was considered a triumph when I was finally taught to dog paddle 5 metres.

I developed a stomach ache (of sheer terror) at every school swimming carnival I attended and successfully begged my mum to take me home before my age race.

Fast forward a year and I’m slowly falling in love – or at least like – with the water. In particular, the idea of sitting with a glass of rose in hand at sunset on a verandah with an aquatic view.

The rockpools at Merewether, in Newcastle, have always been a happy, peaceful place for me. But now I’m dreaming of about escaping the rat race for a hacienda by the beach. It’s a 10-year plan, but it’s keeping me sane as the demands of single motherhood oppress.

For example: the youngest ate toasted bread ends for breakfast yesterday because I’d run out of proper slices.

And I am so, so tired. The early morning band practice drop-offs, the forgotten homework to be collected from Dad’s apartment, the 7am starts at my new job on Tuesday, the bills that need to be paid, the dogs that need to be walked …

So I’m spending my sparse spare moments ogling stuff like this:

I love this little fisherman’s cottage at Church Point …