There’s no bigger tell for a big night out than when you sit around in your grey track pants for the next few days, thundering headache, refusing to do little more than sip water and binge watch the latest trash on Netflix. Surprisingly, I’m not talking about me. (oh no, siree. I was totes spritely to welcome in 2017, thank you very much.) I’m talking about Melbourne.
In my head, Summer holidays are supposed to be about sitting in the sunshine – sandy hair, salty skin, sunscreen smearing up your iPhone screen – and there’s one thing for sure, Melbourne town is too hungover to deliver. For two full days into 2017, we’ve scrunched our noses up at grey skies, winds and drizzly rain. It’s not cold, but it’s enough to begrudgingly bring the doona back out overnight, and red wine hasn’t felt entirely inappropriate over the last few nights.
But dammit. I live near the beach. ‘To The Beach’ we shall go, because Summer Holidays. (*shoves on several layers of activewear, looks nothing like the instagrams of Bondi glossies*)
Not that Diesel cares. He only wants to chase the seagulls (current count, Diesel: 0, Seagulls: 289, 578) and splash around in the shallows, digging in the sand. And while it’s not exactly the balmy, breezy nights I’ve been waiting for, the sea spray and ocean air is still invigorating. (Or maybe that’s just the icy winds blowing in from the Strait?)
And, while we all await the inevitable arrival of this year’s annual Apocalypse HeatWave, that will have the shoes sticking to the court at Rod Laver Arena and air-conditioning units running overtime, let’s enjoy this slightly less extreme start to the new year. The Christmas festivities scream excess – scrambling to finish the work year, coupled with a heaving social calendar, many foods, much booze, indulgent gifts (most of which are for ourselves, amiright friends?) – and it feels right that the very first few days are asking for little more of me than to stop and breathe.