After the sicknesses that plagued my last trips to Oz, it was time for the perfect one. I got on the plane… completely healthy. I arrived in Melbourne, completely healthy. And damn was it a good feeling.
I’d been a little more hesitant about going this year I was off by myself again, and the guilt and sadness at leaving my 3-year old behind was a little more intense. Last year he barely noticed my absence. This year, he was well aware. He didn’t mind me going, because he got to stay home with Papa. But at the same time he wanted to come with me, because he didn’t want to miss out on ice cream.
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I’m a crier. Anyone who knows me knows that. And what’s more, often I actually like crying. I enjoy the release of emotion. I feel like it’s something I need to do on a semi-regular basis to stay sane. If it all gets too much, on goes the Notebook or Armageddon… and off I go!
None of which, by the way, I saw on my recent trip to Australia.
Growing up in Melbourne I’ve always been close to the beach. Our family holidays were often coastal and featured a lot of swimming both in surf and the calmer waters of the bay. From about the age of 10 my parents joined us up to a sailing club in Safety Beach, and from then on, until I decided I was too old to spend Sunday’s with my parents, we were there every week from November to April, rain hail or shine.