Making Friends With The Neighbours

Best bacon and egg roll on the east coast - fo' real! ... Home again. Points. Waves then breakfast. My shoulders are so tired that I can barely lift my arms. Hell, yes.

"Look at you! Look at your legs, Bec ! You're so funny..." Huh? I look down at my legs sticking out from under my skirt. "What are you talking about?" "Look at your tanlines ! What's with your knees? And your HANDS!" It's true, I can't deny it - my body is a mish -mash of white, gold and deep brown markings. My recent ocean forays have left me in a colourful state that has created a story across my body, most recently marked in by some irresponsible sunburn acquired during a particularly fun session last weekend... My legs are dark brown from my knees to my hips, the part of my body that sits out of the water as I wait between waves - the tan stops across the middle of my knee as a marker of how deep my legs are submerged as I sit on my board. There is a band of brown that runs across my lower back showing the spot where my vest sits up over my hips, leaving it exposed to the sun. My hands look like they're swathed in brown gloves from

Oh dear lord, I am petrified of what I mind find here ... Well, this to start with. I'm sure it's an interesting story, full of tales of men being brave, being larrikins, drinking beer and chasing skirt, while overcoming fear in the face of adversity through the strength they found in their mates etc etc. But, well, I mean, the fonts they've chosen for the cover tell me enough at this point. If this book found it's way into my life, I'd read it, but I'm fairly certain I can guess the ending already.

Ages ago, a friend described a photo to me that she had seen somewhere, sometime. She said it was of a Hawai'ian woman dropping her board through the air, with her arms spread wide, in front of a wave that was big and white and pitching over, and you couldn't be sure if she's make it or not. It sounded awesome, so imagine my delight to find it on this cover at the bargain, second-hand price of $4*! The image is of Desiree DeSoto is from 1997/98 and I l.o.v.e. it. This image is small (but if you click on it, it will become enormous!!), so it's hard to see but she has the BIGGEST smile on her face. Stoked. *Disclaimer: I'm not necessarily saying that I l.o.v.e. Pacific Longboarder though. Not recently anyway. And while we're here, I might as well note that in all the years that Pacific Longboarder has been published (since about 1996), this cover is one of 3 that features a woman with one other group shot that has a woman included. That makes 4 covers in total t

A few months ago, my friend posed a hypothetical question to me, better known as a "would you rather..?" Jules is a well-known and experienced purveyor of such questions but none of them has ever stumped quite like this one: "Would you rather... never kiss anyone again, or never go in the ocean again?" At first, the answer seems obvious, but on closer thought, the challenge grows. The sensuality and physicality of both options is intoxicating. To never go in the ocean again is unthinkable. To never feel the water on my body, to taste the salt in my mouth or to feel it sting my eyes and skin? To never look through the waves from underneath them? To never again scream, submerged and silent? To never feel myself tossed around in whitewash, tumbling and flailing? To never paddle into another wave? But then, to never kiss again is also almost too much to bear! The warmth, the softness, the pressure, mouths, bodies, movement, skin, the teeth, and the way that it can mov

Texting is a funny business. Like emails, I am always careful not to read too much into the nuances of these immediate forms of contact, which can be hastily or thoughtlessly composed forms of communication that may also be affected by what is going around the sender. And so I find delight in a well composed text that shares some kind of experience but in essence requires no response - especially when it comes to talking about surfing! Here are some I've received in the past few months: Friend 1: Yesterday I surfed my mal on a perfect bank out the front of my house all day. I think I learned to surf again. Friend 2: Fuck! It's pumping down here! Where are you? I spent the past 6 hours shredding and finally remember why I love surfing. Friend 3: Arghhhhhhhhhhh! Yesterday was dingtown. Population me. And then there is this, which is possibly the most wonderful invitation to surf that I could ever imagine: Friend 3: Shall we meet in an hour and shred dear lady?

My friend sent me a little version of this painting via the post and I love her dearly for it. I think it's very beautiful. Woman in the Waves (1889), Paul Gauguin (French, b. 1848) Gauguin painted this canvas in April 1889 at Pont-Aven, a small village in northwest France. He left Paris for this remote, rugged area along the Atlantic coast in hopes of finding a more primitive, natural life. The painting shows a nude woman, one hand raised to her mouth, throwing herself into the sea. This mysterious image has been interpreted as symbolic of the soul abandoning itself to nature. Thank you, Laura.

Last night I went and saw Newcastle at the cinema. I'll tell you about the filmic experience in two parts - the first has nothing to do with the actual film and the second probably won't either*... Part I - I am a LOSER! I live by myself in a city that I have only this year moved to. I don't really know anyone, and I'm not exactly a party girl, so mostly my nights are spent at home making dinners for one and counting the minutes until CSI: Las Vegas comes on. I'm pretty over it to be honest - I'm great company and everything but even I can get sick of my own jokes after a while! So last night I thought I'd take myself out in public and watch a film at a big cinema and, basically, not be on my own. So I drove the 20 mins to the ENORMOUS cinema complex across town and lined up to buy a ticket. There were people everywhere. Me: 'One ticket to Newcastle please' Ticket nerd: 'Sure... oh! You're the only person to have bought a ticket to see that

When you are a reader, you are constantly faced with offers of books to borrow that you might enjoy. I have currently been loaned two books and I must say that this book, is a much more interesting and engaging read than this one; I realise that one is written by a wordsmith, a lyrical genius, a literary icon while the other has been written for people who don't usually read, but I can usually overlook that! I mean, I've read the entire Harry Potter series, which is meant for children, and those books assume a greater level of intelligence and comprehension than Layne's (auto)biography. Am I being too harsh? I met a 93 year old lady once who told me that there are too many wonderful books in the world to waste time reading the bad ones. She has a formula to weed out the crap whereby you subtract your age from 100 and that's the amount of pages you give a book to hook you in. If it hasn't got you by then, you move on! Anyhoo, I will persevere.

Some days are just inherently better than others. Some days everything seems better and brighter and more beautiful than it usually does. Some days, you're just simply and perfectly content and happy. This was one of those days. This was for my mum when I was away away away and I sent it to her over the internets... It's ridiculous piece of self-indulgence. And it reveals, once again, my obsession with capturing my feet on film.

Wow! This is who I want to be when I grow up. As if you'd bother messing with her?

I don't know which horses are running, I haven't studied the form, and I don't intend on watching it. That's right, I am not excited by the Melbourne Cup. It just annoys me that everyone in Australia is suddenly an expert on the form guide for that one day a year. Go on, admit it - like me, you bet on horses based on either their name or their colours. My high school maths teacher, Mr Dean, was obsessed with the Melbourne Cup. He would spend weeks focusing on it in our classes and we would get extra marks for knowing the names of the winners for different years. One of my friends had a rhyme to remember some of the winners that I can still recall; '81 was Just A Dash '83 was Kiwi I remember on one occasion being forced to get up in front of my class to demonstrate the difference between trotting and pacing. Yes, fond memories. Maybe that's why I remain the only person I know who doesn't get excited about the Melbourne Cup. Stupid, creepy, Mr Dean..

I know that ballet is often is seen as something not-so-manly, but that's just clearly because you're working within a fairly limited definition. This clip shows how totally Rudolf Nurevey has maniless sewn up!! He's tough, soft, graceful and dynamic, AND he's all these things at the same time. Please take note of how freaking strong Nureyev's body is here and how completely in control he is at all times. It's insane! And then there's the formidable Margot Fonteyn, who may be tiny and looks like she'd snap in the slightest breeze, but is in fact strong, muscular and more than able to hold her own against the power and presence of Nureyev. She is just so incredible - strong, controlled, committed yet at all times graceful. The gruelling training that she must have put her body through is beyond my comprehension. What a rockstar.

Sigh... Oh what a difference two days, an offshore wind, crew, an organic doughnut and a meagre but clean foot of swell makes. I can think again.

I haven't been surfing in a month. Not even near the ocean. And it's DRIVING ME MENTAL!!!! Sooooo, that's about the state of play here...

I just spent some time at one of my favourite places on earth - my friend's farm. It was nice to be surrounded by so much green and to take walks across the property and through the trees. It feels so good to move along something that's not made of concrete or that's a concession to humanity for the roads and pavements of the city. The ground here rolls and undulates and it's easy to walk through the spaces of grass, trees and dirt. We didn't really do anything all day to be honest. We drank coffee, ate biscuits, laughed at the goats and chickens, went for walks and read books while it rained - a nothingness of activity which speaks volumes for how close our friendship is. The farm is beautiful and amazing and my friends, who have no farming background whatsoever, have developed this place into something viable and beautiful with lots of hard work and a level of commitment that I can but marvel at! Even better, there is no mobile phone reception...

Dear New South Wales, It's not looking good is it? My thoughts are with you at this difficult time, Rebecca PS. The video gives greater effect.

This ad drives me MENTAL! This poor young woman is just trying to cope with a new baby, let alone make sure that her friends aren't going to judge her by her imperfectly cleaned toilet! Are they? This ad annoys me because I understand her levels of anxiety about it. I do feel that the cleanliness of my house, even if I'm sharing, reflects on who I am as a woman. I have been the only woman living in several sharehouses and always took on the role of the cleaner because I always felt that people would look to me if the place wasn't clean! Silly, or is there some truth to it? How often do you go to a female friend's house and they immediately apologise for the state of the place? And then there is the quick performance by the visitor that absolves them of any shame for being so bad as to have not managed to put away the kid's toys or clean the shower that week? Judgement is accounted for before it is even doled out. I try not to let these conversations take place. And

My friend Dan reckons that these days the lineup can be like a massive pickup joint! I don't know about that though. I see more admiring from afar than actual move-making...

From Oscar Wilde's A Woman of No Importance ; LADY STUTFIELD: Ah! The World was made for men and not for women. MRS ALLONBY: Oh, don't say that, Lady Stutfield. We have a much better time than they have. There are far more things forbidden to us than are forbidden to them. LADY STUTFIELD: Yes; that is quite, quite true. I had not thought of that.

My first car was a 1979 Toyota Corolla who was delivered to me with both a history and an identity – her name was Emily. I inherited her from my friend, Kate, who had inherited her from her first and only other owner, Kate’s nan. Emily was a bit of a character and it didn’t take long until almost everyone in town seemed to know that she was mine. I would be tearing along the road and arms would be flying out of cars in salutation of the two of us. Most of the time, I didn’t know who it was that was waving so wildly, but it used to bring me no end of pleasure. Hailing from 1979, my little car had a few, um, perks that made driving both exciting and terrifying. Although a manual, the gears were almost arbitrary and you could pretty much just take off in 4th! The front passenger floor would turn into a small pond when it rained and sometimes she just wouldn’t start! When this happened, you just had to get out, walk away for 20 minutes and come back, a technique that both forced my

I’m lucky to have been able to develop some really intimate friendships with a few men in my life. These friendships are locked in the non-sexual and both sides work at keeping it that way. But it’s sometimes hard. With my girlfriends, it’s easier because they’re simply friends. I’m a hetero lass, so my sexuality doesn’t confuse the way I experience the intimacy we share. When it comes to the guys however, it can get a little more complicated. There are certain ways that men are able to include me in their lives in an intimate but non-sexual way, with the most common method making them into some kind of brother figure. These guys give me cheek and tease me but if they hear of anyone else disrespecting me, they threaten to get involved. They have made me into a sister that they love and have great affection for but who needs their help and protection - because you can’t want to have sex with your sister. And sometimes, to be honest, I play on this too, because it helps me set clear bo

The sun is warm on my bare shoulders, my legs feel hot in black jeans and my feet are dirty in thongs. It’s Spring! I climb the stairs and push my library book in the return slot and turn to head across the grass towards my car and home… My earphones squish into my ears and I flick the radio on in time to hear the end of a live set from N.E.R.D. touring Australia in 2002. I wish I’d been there to watch them perform this song – it sounds like it was fun. I think of Pharrell and his beautiful, arrogant cat-like face, his clothes than seem to leak self-confidence and his skinny legs that stick out of his always long shorts. I imagine him jumping around the stage to the delight of thousands of screaming women… I jump with fright as a friend catches my arm as I walk – I hadn’t noticed him as he yelled out to me, but he just wanted to say hi. Nice. He kisses my cheek and we part ways for the day, I push the earphones back in place in time to hear a Sigur Ros song begin. Their music starts

Before I go any further with this post, I need to admit something that will become quickly apparent anyway; I tend to become a little bit stuck on certain points, ideas, moments, conversations, songs... That darn Cure song just will not move itself along and, try as I might, I can't seem to insert any other songs on that silent soundtrack in my mind and which has, thusly , led me to thinking about boys and men and crying. Or, more specifically, to thinking about which of my own male friends (of both the boy and man variety) I have actually seen cry. And it's not many. Although it's something that I can't be specific about, I would say that in my life, I can recall less than 10 times that I've had male friends cry in front of me!! ALL of my female friends and family have been in tears in front of me on many occasions, and I certainly am not a stranger to shedding a tear myself, but when it comes to the guys - and no matter how close a friendship I share with them

This song is on high rotation in my head... I would say I'm sorry If I thought that it would change your mind But I know that this time I have said too much Been too unkind I try to laugh about it Cover it all up with lies I try to laugh about it Hiding the tears in my eyes 'Cause boys don't cry Boys don't cry I would break down at your feet And beg forgiveness Plead with you But I know that It's too late And now there's nothing I can do So I try to laugh about it Cover it all up with lies I try to laugh about it Hiding the tears in my eyes 'cause boys don't cry Boys don't cry I would tell you That I loved you If I thought that you would stay But I know that it's no use That you've already Gone away Misjudged your limits Pushed you too far Took you for granted I thought that you needed me more Now I would do most anything To get you back by my side But I just Keep on laughing Hiding the tears in my eyes 'cause boys don't cry Boys don&

I will admit a high level of disappointment that I cannot claim the following as my own, but I would still like to share with you a brand new word and a turn of phrase which have both given me cause for delight in the last few weeks; 1. Brisillusionment - my friend made up this word to describe the feelings that that are suffered on becoming a resident of the city of Brisbane. It is perfect. 2. The televangelical hour of the morning - a delightfully descriptive notion from Franklin Foer in 'How Soccer Explains the World'. I imagine it to be similar to, but slightly different from, the witching hour. More hysterical perhaps?

There are many times when I have been prioritised as being second (or third or fourth) to waves, and while I mostly understand it still really sucks. From what I've witnessed, surfing and romantic relationships don't always fit together particularly smoothly. The total freedom that we have when we're single often needs to be negotiated and re-thought when we enter a relationship that holds responsibilities such as a partner, housework and children. Many of my (especially guy!) friends seem to think that there is some definable amount of effort that they can make in order to be free to go surfing whenever they want the rest of the time - especially when it comes to those usual points of friction, housework and childcare. But life doesn't operate on such predictable rhythms and often surfing can affect a partner or friend in selfish ways. Surfing might be all about me, but the rest of my life isn't. Being the primary care-giver for children can be a full-time and t

To quote vbs . tv , this little film is about " the maybe not-so-vital debate over Surfing as art vs. sport". My favourite lines include (but are not limited to) "Are you going for like, extreme functionality in a surfboard or an art piece?" and "It works, well it doesn't like not work" " Extreme functionality "?!! Youth these days! *Chortles in manner of old man smoking a pipe*

If you're bored and need someone to laugh at/obsessively watch, then this is the web-cam for you! It's set up in front of the Duke Kahanamoku statue at Waikiki Beach and allows people to stand in front of it and organise for their loved ones to watch them do so. Intriguing to say the very least. When I was there, folk would stand in front of the camera while talking to their girlfriends on their mobile phones; "Can you see me? I'm waving! No, no, I'm in a blue T-shirt..." And if you get bored of this one, then go to the link that takes you to other Honolulu web-cams including the ever interesting 'Live City Council Meetings' camera and 'Traffic Hot Spots'. Hours of fun for everyone!

A few weeks ago, I was in a busy (and expensive!) café in Byron, waiting to meet friends for lunch. I was on my own, but I’d purposely arrived early to have a coffee and write down a couple of things I’d been thinking about. So I pulled out my slightly dog-eared notebook and, pen in hand, scrawled across the pages. The waitress eventually came along with my coffee and, as she put it down on the table, had the unfortunate urge to speak… “Is that ‘Dear Diary’ or are you doing work?” I took a breath and slowly raised my eyes to give her a deeply patronising look over the rim of my glasses. I also raised one eyebrow and pursed my lips. She retreated. The inference that dripped off her tongue (along with the sarcasm) was that one reason for my writing would have been acceptable and the other one, lame. Why exactly? Why would one be better than the other? Why is it ok to work in public but not to write for pleasure? Work, I suppose (and this, I admit, is conject

Gracious me, I love books! And call me romantic, but I love them even more when they're old and scabby and need to be read again so that their purpose can once more be fulfilled and they can be brought back to life and you can remember why they spoke to you the first time around. "Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos gets such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it is high time to get to the sea as soon as I can." Yo dat , Herman Melville. Yo dat .

I left my place early on Saturday morning, tied my board to the roof and headed towards the ocean. I was feeling shitty and tired and cranky and wanted, nay, needed to find a wave. Any wave. I checked a couple of places on the way down and bumped into a friend who confirmed the tiny swell-status of the day and sent me off to the last bastion - into town... I pulled up at Wategos and silently screamed - my last stop was small, lumpy and on-shore. I sat and stared and stared and decided to go out anyway because there wasn't a single person out there. That's right, empty Wategos, not a soul to be seen. It was crap, but at least I wouldn't be competing for crap. I paddled out and (surprise, surprise ) started to feel better. The water was clear and warm- ish , the sun was beating down and the wind wasn't too bad actually. There was a big pod of dolphins feeding and leaping about and a huge turtle was lurking about underneath me. And, as it happened, I got wave, after

Some points to note pre-viewing: 1. Turn the sound down. This music makes me want to destroy my inner-ear. 2. Inspiration for swimwear options or what!! High waist, low cut leg... oooh yeah. I really shoulda been a lady in the 60s and 70s.

Gladiate this!

So... My has friend led me down the dark path of watching entire series (yes, plural) of Beverly Hills 90210 on DVD. Don't judge me. I have now dragged a few other friends along with me by feeding them small tid -bits that I have singled out as highlights and have since been spending many happy hours following the lives of Brenda, Brandon, Dylan, Kelly, Donna, Steve, Andrea ( SUCKERman ) and David Silver. It's rad. How does this link? Well, first of all, if you have any sense of humour, you should go out and watch episode 2, season 1 - The Green Room. It's pretty much the best thing ever. Ever. Here are some indicators... Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha . Ha. Ha. Ha. Dylan drives this AMAZING Porsche that gets him more chicks than any other car on earth and I know I shouldn't say that but my god... it's true. He also wears denim overalls with one shoulder undone and hanging down, coupled with a white t-shirt and 16-hole cherry Docs. I'd hit it. Small, but you get

The sense of relief I feel in knowing that I am not the only one who hates these things is immense. It's such a big issue (in my world) that it could almost be made into a 'two-types-of-people' category where never the twain shall meet. Families could be broken up and star-crossed love thwarted in a Romeo and Juliet style, family feud event. Love the plant - truly, I do - but the sticker/car-seat cover/ rear-vision mirror decoration/tattoo, they all have to go. Lames-village.

I’m staring to get the feeling that I might be one of the most privileged surfing women in Australia … I come from a town where surfing is a large part of the community identity and never questioned as being a worthwhile pursuit. I get to surf at some of the most beautiful point breaks around, which break long and clean and consistently, and most of the time there are any number of women out in the lineup. In fact, on occasion women almost equal the number of guys in the water. I am not saying I live in a surfing nirvana – there are problems and bullying and bastards - but I feel that I am in a privileged position where I am accepted and even encouraged at the breaks I frequent. Until recently, however, I didn’t really understand how privileged. A friend recently challenged my blissful ignorance and slammed home the realisation that the surfing life that I enjoy is not the norm. In fact, it is not even real. In fact, I am rejected repressed, scorned, objectified and barely