21 April 2012


It's a very rare occasion that I ever post something that isn't created by me so these rare posts are something not to be missed. This piece is written by my dear friend Seb about his mix of memories from the two trips we have taken to my beach house in Lorne. I've read this seven times over but each time is as if I am reading it for the first. I get such a rush of mixed emotions that I felt compelled to share it with you. I hope you feel the same as I do and that you find reading a different perspective of our trips as interesting as I did....Enjoy xx


Last night I heard everything in slow motion. The thickness I felt underneath me and the coolness of the air pressed against my body. Sickle moons and beige lights were like clockworks behind my closed eyes and smouldering eucalyptus and blackened pasta burnt my nose. I heard a song for the first time that was so vivid and clear and embracing that I felt my heart beat a different pulse. The screen door was open and the sea crashed upon our room. The lilt of foamy vapour smelt of salt and we breathed deeply. Estranged in our bucolic room by the sea our bodies draped over the alpaca rug. And we watched all of our problems evaporate.

We drank criminal champagne, savouring the fizz and dulcet of expensiveness. Around the white table we all laughed with new energy as Kings and Queens and Aces and three diamonds were swept from pile to pile. The ‘vwoomff’ and crackle of ancient bulbs reverberated through our heads as we smiled at Canon. This night was for eternity. 

Occasionally strangers visited our demesne. They were distant and pungent with cigarettes and sweat. Their fluorescent hoodies and swagger were too different. I didn’t know their names, and they didn’t know mine. Perhaps it was our newfound emollience, and their lack of- that clashed. 

Wrapped in sheets that were so white I was at first too scared to lie on, the nights were silent; and like ethereal plumes, my dreams were murmurous and serene. So light I felt. And like an offing of time-suddenly and bursting like pressurised grapes, viscous and tangy light would erupted through the bare windows. Yet every instance I woke with complete stillness, something I had forgotten at home. The screeching and frantic groping in the darkness for a miniscule button was a distant nemesis.

Panacea was imbued in us. The brisk summer air. The screams of ebullient bubble baths. The warm flavour of butter and melted chocolate in the oven. The echo of bare feet clapping on cool concrete. 

As we crumpled on that alpaca rug, efflorescence wafted between our bare toes and fingers, behind our ears and between our lips. And we forgot.

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