hawks nest

It’s a measure of our tiredness. On previous beach holidays—Surfers, Noosa—my good woman is up at sparrowfart walking along the sand. Not here. She remains firmly rooted under the sheets, kicking them off as the hot flushes come, pulling them back as dawn’s cool goose-bumps her.

I’m awake as always between five and six. I move soundlessly around our two rooms, slink the blinds down, shift bags, close the door and leave my good woman to drowse as long as she needs.

Our accommodation is modest: it’s a euphemism. The rooms are tiny, old, partly refurbished. The carpet is a grey scum, the bathroom vanity disintegrating particleboard. I sit on the can with my knees against the wall in front of me, thankful to be shitting after two days without.

Our open windows face east but the sun struggles to penetrate the salt build-up. Odd patches of discolouration mark walls and ceiling. The dank smell when we enter yesterday for the first time sours my good woman’s face. She’s all about the nose, is offended by odours that don’t register with me at all.

I’m on holiday: our accommodation is fine as far as I’m concerned. We have a fridge and microwave, cutlery and crockery. The television and DVD player work; last night we watch the first of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I can sit at this tiny round table and type these words. The crashing waves form an endless backdrop.

Mid-morning my good woman hauls her boogie board to the beach while I haul my sorry fat arse onto the bike and up the road to Mungo Brush, dead straight, dead flat, behind the dunes. It feels like I’m pedalling uphill every stroke of the way. The bike bumpety-bumps along the grippy, pitted bitumen, the sun belts down; there is no shade.

I’m so unfit. The journey back to fitness must begin somewhere. I’ve done a few press-ups lately but chances to ride have not happened. I feel crap but at least I’m in the saddle.

Rock on.