Brett looks like he’s carved out of granite, but he’s in his twenties and Australian, so that’s more or less par for the course and not worth mentioning, to be honest. “You guys have a nice swim?” he asks us.
“Yes thank you,” Sangwen answers in her calm, level manner as she rises from her towel.
“Think I’ve managed to top up my tan a bit,” I say to him as I get up too.
“Yeah, you’re not bad for a Pom,” Brett replies and smiles cheekily.
“Nice, er, nice costume you’ve got there Laura,” Alan says. There’s a doubtful tone to his voice that gives me the distinct impression he doesn’t really mean it.
“Thanks,” I say anyway. I figure if he’s trying to be polite, the least I can do is accept the comment at face value.
“Interesting slogan,” he points out.
I don’t think “Surf Lovin’” is all that interesting myself, but these Australians do seem to have a fairly blunt sense of humour.
We make our way back to the changing rooms on the esplanade and it’s actually with some regret that I retrieve my clothes from the locker and enter the nearest free cubicle. I’ve enjoyed the hour or so we’ve spent in the sun this afternoon, safe in the knowledge that my enigmatic employer is satisfied with the work I’m doing.
I take off the twenty-dollar swimming costume and hold it up, giving it a more thorough once-over now it’s off my body. I don’t ever intend to wear it again, but it’s seen me through the impromptu dip in the ocean, so I can’t complain too much.
Quite why Sangwen and Alan thought the slogan on the front was worth mentioning I can’t quite fathom. After all, it only says—
I turn the costume in my hands to look at the back and my blood runs cold.
“Surf Lovin’” was only the first part of the catchphrase. There is more on the back. Oh sweet Jesus Christ on a kangaroo, there is more on the back. Above a crude cartoon of a voluptuous beach bunny lying on a surfboard with her two enormous breasts exposed for the world to see are the words “Beach Whore” written in big, bold block capitals.
Yes, for the last hour I have been proudly proclaiming to everyone in Surfer’s Paradise that I not only enjoy the foaming waters of the Gold Coast, but that I also like to indulge in giving oral pleasure to strangers behind the beach huts for money.
Still, this is quite a nice changing-room cubicle. As a place to hide in for the rest of my life thanks to cringe-worthy levels of embarrassment, it certainly beats the men’s bathroom at the offices of Hotel Chocolat. Jamie will have to bring Poppy for regular visits, and they’ll of course have to pass food over the top of the door, but at least I have a bench to sit on and can while away the years reading the graffiti on the walls.
So today I well and truly managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, Mum.
I’ve also once again highlighted the absolute importance of taking your damn sweet time when out shopping for clothes. Being in a rush will only cause you to purchase the wrong item and inform everyone in the general vicinity that you like to earn your living lying on your back with your legs in the air.
I didn’t mention my newfound status of beach whore to my colleagues as we made our way back to the shop. Thankfully, neither did they. I’m going to hope that my good work with our financial figures will mitigate the appearance that I like to advertise the fact I’m a dirty streetwalker. Alan and company certainly didn’t seem too bothered by it as they happily bid me goodbye at the store entrance.
The walk over to pick up Poppy at the end of the day was a bit disconcerting, though. I’m sure I got a few funny looks from people who passed me in the street, and there was one guy who looked suspiciously like he was trying to fish his wallet out and offer me something before I ran around the nearest corner and out of his line of sight.
When I got home that evening, I told Jamie what had happened. This was a colossal mistake, of course. I don’t know which was worse, the abrupt gales of laughter on conclusion of my story, or the request later that I wear the costume the next time we have sex.
Love you and miss you, Mum.
Your shameful daughter, Laura
xx
JAMIE’S BLOG
Sunday 16 April
Here are the top things I miss about the UK, having lived in Australia for over four months (time really does fly when you’re looking for a job, while applying insect repellant and sun cream in equal measure):
Marmite. Oh dear Vegemite, you try so very hard, but you’re just not quite there, are you? It’s a brave act you put on, but we all know you’re still Marmite’s bitch whether you like it or not. You’re like the plain girl who goes to the prom only to find out that you are wearing the same dress as the hot cheerleader. You’re like a Rolling Stones cover band who plays all the hits but just isn’t the same thing at all. Yes, I miss Marmite a great deal. I miss Bovril, too. You can eat kangaroo in Australia, but can you find a decent meat-flavoured drink anywhere? Hell no!
Sleeping under duvets. Out here…forget it. You’d die of heat exhaustion in three minutes. The sheets are a pain in the arse, as they have a knack of entwining themselves in your limbs to such an extent that you become virtually pinned to the bed. I miss my duvet.
Wearing long trousers like a proper adult. I’ve been walking around in shorts so much I’m starting to feel like a naughty schoolboy from the fifties. I actually pulled on a pair of full-length jeans the other day. It felt like coming home. I then took them off again as nobody likes a sweaty kneecap.
The English countryside. Now don’t get me wrong, the Australian flora and fauna is gorgeous. All those golden beaches, fragrant rainforests, and striking mountains are fantastic. But damn it all, there’s something about the rolling English countryside that just can’t be beat.
The British sense of humour. Yup, nothing like it. While the Australians can be quite amusing, it’s a very blunt kind of humour. I’ve watched both the UK and Aussie versions of Top Gear and the difference is obvious. They don’t really do sarcasm or irony here much.
Accurate weather reports. We’d love to be able to trust the Australian weather, but it’s about as accurate as Michael Bay’s Pearl Harbor. Yesterday, for instance, there were supposed to be showers, clouds, and occasional sunshine—and it was blue skies all day. Two days before that there were supposed to be showers, clouds, and occasional sunshine—and it drizzled all day. I think they just say there’re going to be showers, clouds, and occasional sunshine to cover all bases for every day of the year.
Thankfully, the weather report said it would be windy and grey on Friday, so it was a lovely sunny day to get out and about. Miraculously, Laura also had the day off work.
This was her first day off since she started the job, and I decided it would be a good idea for us to do something “touristy” together. She’s been pretty exhausted after work and on the weekends, so we haven’t thus far ventured farther afield than the local beaches of the Gold Coast. As soon as she said that she was taking Friday off, I jumped on the laptop to see what interesting places we could take Poppy to see that were within a drivable distance. I figured if nothing else, it would give Laura and me quality time together, as well as get me out of this apartment for a while, and stop me from thinking about job applications. I’ve missed spending time with my wife, and this trip would be a great way of rectifying that.
The rainforest is a fascinating place that I’d been keen on visiting since we touched down at the Brisbane airport, so I planned a lovely drive inland to Springbrook National Park, the vast green forest that lies to the rear of the Gold Coast in slumbering vegetative glory.
I have learned lessons from this day trip that I will now impart in full so that others may learn from my experience and avoid the discomfort and mind-numbing terror I’ve just been through. I’ll start with a tip for you: should you ever decide to visit this fair country and take in
some of its wondrous natural landscapes and beautiful national parks, do bear in mind that visiting an Australian forest is not like visiting one in Britain.
This may seem obvious, but I really want to hammer the point home as heavily as possible, because the differences are far greater than you can appreciate. Or, rather, you might be able to appreciate them, but I sure as hell didn’t until it was way too late to do anything about it.
In England, it’s very easy to pop out for the day to feed the New Forest ponies and grab a pub lunch. A nice time is generally had by all, providing the rain holds off and there is no roadwork between you and the wildlife. It is resolutely not easy to conduct a similar day trip to your nearest Australian national park.
First of all, you won’t be popping out anywhere. One simply does not pop out to a place like Springbrook National Park. It may look relatively close on Google Maps—no more than forty miles and less than an hour’s drive away—but contained within that short distance are obstacles and horrors that generally require several changes of underpants before you so much as reach the damn park.
“I’ll drive us there and back,” I confidently say as I plug Springbrook’s post code into the GPS.
“Will you?” Laura replies with apparent relief.
“Yeah, sure. You’re doing that drive to work every day, the least I can do is take over for something like this.”
“Thank you. I don’t think I could stand another minute behind that wheel this week.”
“My pleasure,” I smile back, completely unaware of the terror about to unfold.
We pile into the Magna and set off from Coolangatta on the kind of beautiful warm, sunny day you dream about when you’re stuck in traffic on the M4 at seven in the morning in the middle of January.
The first section of the drive is fine, right up the Pacific Highway and off at the Mudgeeraba exit. Even the second stage is more or less a breeze as you wend your way through the low-lying fields and forests of the hinterland. Then you come to the road that leads up to Springbrook National Park. The most important word in that previous sentence is up.
The farther you travel towards the park, the more you come to appreciate just how important the word up really is. You see, unlike the New Forest, Lake Windermere, Dartmoor (or any one of a thousand other forests in Britain), Springbrook sits on a mountainous plateau just slightly higher than the tip of Mount Everest.
I find it incredible that no one has noticed this before me. All the encyclopædias would have you believe that the highest point on planet Earth is Everest, but I am here to tell you from personal experience that it isn’t. Springbrook National Park is. I know—I’ve driven up the bastard in a secondhand Mitsubishi Magna.
Everything is fine until we leave the last remote homesteads behind and really start to push uphill. The road goes from a straight ribbon cutting through the countryside to a snaking series of U-bends and hairpin turns that hug the side of the rapidly ascending geography.
“Whoa, this is getting tricky,” I say in a half-amused, half-anxious voice to Laura.
“Yeah,” she replies in a vague sort of way and tightens her hand on the seat belt strap ever so slightly.
Up and up we go, my whitened hands working at the steering wheel while my brain wonders just how long this ascent is likely to take. I’m also starting to get a bit worried about how much petrol we’ve got. All this low gear stuff is not conducive to high miles per gallon when you’re in a three-litre car.
Then the first real bottom-trembling moment occurs.
The height we are at has until now largely been hidden by the thick, dense foliage all around us, but as we reach yet another switchback, we arrive at a point where the trees haven’t grown and you can see right down the side of the mountain.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” hollers Laura.
Poppy lets out a high-pitched squeal. “Mummy said a swear!”
“Mummy is sorry,” I tell her and slow the car even more to look down at where an ashen-faced Laura is indicating. “She promises she won’t do it agai—Jesus fucking Christ!”
It isn’t a mountain slope I’m looking down, it’s a sheer cliff face that drops into infinity.
Unbridled terror vies for supremacy with sheer incongruity. Here I am in a secondhand saloon car with a noisy exhaust and odd smell coming from the trunk, and I’m driving it at a height only birds and a few hardy mountain goats usually get to experience. Anywhere else in the world I could confidently expect to pass a team of Sherpa on their way to the summit.
This is Australia though, where people take a more relaxed attitude to aggressive geography and never let it get in the way of a nice day out. Cars and trucks are still thundering down the mountain from the opposite direction. I get a few odd looks from the locals as they pass by the Magna, no doubt wondering why it’s going so slowly.
Mercifully, the trees once again close in as I nurse the car at three miles an hour round the top of this particular hairpin.
“How…how high up are we?” Laura asks in a shaky voice.
“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to wish we’d packed a few oxygen tanks.”
My heart rate slows down a bit, and I put more revs into the protesting engine.
Still the upward climb goes on.
And on.
And on.
At least the forest hides the mortifying view for the most part, so I’m able to concentrate on the blissfully solid two-lane tarmac road in front of me. Then things get worse. Much, much worse.
On yet another hairpin where the forest has neglected to grow, the two-lane road becomes a single lane. Not only that, but it narrows by a good three feet and streams of water flow over it from cracks in the rock face above.
I let out a noise that sounds like a kettle coming off the boil. Laura sketches a cross on her chest—which is truly indicative of our precarious situation as she’s an atheist.
Poppy is sitting up at the rear window, her nose pressed against the glass. “Mummy, Daddy, look at the big sky!” She points a happy little finger out at the magnificent view beyond the Magna. I don’t have the wherewithal to respond as I begin to negotiate the car along the slick, narrow road. Did I mention there was no barrier at the edge of the road? No, I didn’t think I had.
THERE’S NO BARRIER AT THE EDGE OF THE ROAD!
Nothing between us and certain plunging death, other than my dubious driving skills. If you recall, I once crashed my car trying to park it at work.
We’re all going to die.
The next thirty seconds last eighteen months. Slowly—ever so slowly—I drive us around the turn, my eyes fixed ahead with grim determination. My arsehole is trying to eat the seat below it. My hands shake like a palsied pensioner with frostbite. Laura’s nails dig into the dashboard. Poppy starts to sing the “Circle of Life” from The Lion King. The epic scenery around us has obviously inspired her into song.
I knew we shouldn’t have bought her the flaming Blu-ray. She’s watched it so many times she even knows the African bit at the start, so as I try my hardest not to slip off the road into oblivion, from the backseat I hear, “Nasss ingoymaaaa! Ba boo be baba!”
“Poppy, be quiet, honey. Daddy’s trying to concentrate,” Laura says. Unfortunately it’s in a tiny scared tone so my happy singing daughter doesn’t hear a word.
“It’s the circle of life!” Poppy continues singing at the top of her piping voice.
There are times when I am profoundly glad that Poppy is advanced for her age. This is not one of them. She also has a singing voice akin to her mother’s, which rather resembles a cat having an air-raid siren inserted into it.
“It’s a big, shiny circle!” Poppy keeps going. “I’ve gotta circle of life! And it’s got big bells on!”
I’m pretty sure those aren’t the right lyrics, but there’s no way I’m breaking my unholy level of concentration ri
ght now to tell her so.
Finally I get the car around the turn and back to where the road once again splits into two. By now my arse has digested the seat cushion and is full, so it relaxes somewhat. Laura removes her fingers from the dash, leaving small dents in its plastic surface. Poppy has now moved on to “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King.” Personally, I just can’t wait to get down off this fucking mountain. But we’ve come this far, so there’s no turning back now.
The road, unbelievably, continues upwards for another ten minutes before we reach the plateau and it straightens out again. Very soon we see the first sign for Springbrook and the end of this harrowing journey.
I’ve never been so glad to apply a hand brake in my life. “Maybe we’ll just have a few minutes’ rest here in the car,” I suggest in a light voice.
“That’s a very good idea,” Laura agrees.
“I wanna see all the big trees, Daddy!” Poppy demands.
“Very soon, sweetheart. Just let Mummy and Daddy have a couple of minutes to gather their thoughts.”
Being three years old must be wonderful—you have absolutely no idea what the word mortal means.
We eventually alight from our vehicle and go for a look at the map. If today’s trip has thus far highlighted how much the Australian topography likes to do height, a quick study of the map shows that it loves to do width even more.
Springbrook is bloody enormous.
Stretching across the impressive McPherson Range at the rear of the Gold Coast, you could drop the Lake District inside it and have a bloody hard time finding it again.
We’ve arrived at the Springbrook Plateau section, which is replete with all manner of majestic waterfalls that drop over the side of the plateau in curtains of foaming white water. There are several walks you can go on around the park, taking in the incredible views and natural beauty around you.
Love...Under Different Skies Page 10
