I’ve got this cracking hangover, but not in a boozy, nauseous way. I’m fuzzy-headed, displaced; I feel like I’ve got a head full of Sydney sand.
Good holidays hold specific memories, especially those that happened long ago. Egypt with Mr PC is tiny blue Moroccan tiles around a swimming pool. Greece with BestBirdD is jasmine, sun cream. Spain with the boys is mountain tracks, sunsets and wine. My Cornwall (not a holiday but a genetic coordinate) is tamarisk, mud, Mivvys at the shop.
I wake up every morning and I’m ready for a beach, any old one will do: Coogee, Hamelin, Manly. It’s too early to say what my ‘Stralia snapshot will be just yet: sweeping the van, morning toast on a fold-up chair, hot Clontarf deck?
I can get back to it if I want, though, easy. Any time I want to hop back in the hire car and drive up to Palm Beach I click forward on my iPod until I find the Choon Of The Trip, good old Mr Thicke from Aunty’s NOW 85 gift to SM (CD1-Track2). If you’re in a hot country you can get the full effect by finding a cliff road, rolling down the car windows and cranking up the sound until the speakers pop your ears. If you’re in a cold country you must turn up the heating and tip sand all over the floor:
