Breaking bread at Church Point

Given enough money, I could live in Sydney. The only problem being which coastal space to inhabit?. On the beach at Bondi among the artistes and glitterati, perched above the trees at Tamarama surrounded by supermodels and students, or tethered by leg rope to the buffalo grass swathes of the northern Peninsula.

A leisurely loll of a week's duration in Sydney will do that to you. Like the persistent beach sand that refuses to be dislodged from your flanks, the idea of living by the sea becomes a distinct possibility when normality recedes.

Our latest outing reinforced this musing. To celebrate Wendy's birthday, it was suggested we head to Church Point for a seafood lunch over water. We parked amongst the cars of Scotland Island residents, who had earlier embarked from the tiny commuter ferries, and found a table under canvas. Large platters of freshly cooked flathead fillets and newspaper cones of hot chips soon arrived and almost rendered the table (five females and I), silent. Almost.

This is the life!. Reality can take a running jump off the nearest pier.