Dip Between Courses

It’s the annual birthday event and we gather on the deck. When I ask what I can do to help the host says: get yourself a glass of champagne, so I oblige. There’s a u-shaped table overlooking an empty beach and a turquoise tarp that’s shading it. We think the bunting on the balcony is festive and French themed. Later we’re told it keeps away the white cockatoos that descend to chew through the cedar exterior of the house.

The girls are off for a swim but first they stand on boogie boards on the sand and the dad takes their photo.

First course is duck parfait. There’s a visual artist sitting near us. He’s from WA. We start to talk about Australia’s culture, our outlook, our identity and our apologist leanings. Chris says that the only two Australian artists who have been well known outside Australia are Nolan and Whitely. Not true, we cry. Who else? It’s salon-after-several-drinks chat, and we’re straight into it.

The risotto is made over a camping burner on the deck. The girls pour the stock and take turns at stirring. By the time we’ve eaten it the artist is asking if I’m happy. I deflect. Others are filing past in their swimmers. Convenient distraction. There are no waves, so I join them. No waves. No waves. It’s warm, and it falls away so fast. We bob between courses, and think how lucky we are.

The outdoor shower has hot water. I leave on my sunglasses and wash away the sand. The sun’s heading down, the tarp no longer required and there’s one course to go. Chris changes outfit, as if for dinner, but it’s still lunch. Already we’re playing just single tracks on the stereo for maximum manipulation and it’s not yet dark. The brother is throwing CDs down from the balcony for me to catch.

Then comes the homemade pasta with venison, veal and chestnuts. The conversation is mainly an all in discussion about the birthday girl’s breasts. Someone asks if they’re real. How did it come to this?