There's a galah on the railing. The scavenger pink and grey Aussie, the gaudily dressed cocatoo, bold as brass, with a screech loud enough to blow the hairs out of an old man's earhole.Speaking of old men, there's one to my right, tottering into my elbow, who shares some similarilties. He's got a shock of well preened white plumage, is florid from the brow to the sternum, and dressed in sultry beige. Like the bird, he's also here for the free feed and the million dollar view. As am I.
I've been offered a seat with the Catenians, a fantastic group of retired catholics, who've managed to rope someone's son into signing us all into the prestegious Sorrento Couta Boat Sailing Club. I'm here in place of my Mum, who is otherwise disposed having brain cancer, accompanying my super-duper Dad, just because I want to hang out with him. And because I never get invited to this place.
There's only one other person under 60 on the deck, and he's the ring-in club-membership-owning son. I am quickly placed alongside him - not in the traditional matchmaking sense, but probably so that we have someone to hold us back from jumping off the balcony. Because everybody else in the vicinity is talking about ill-heath and death.
Read more »With love from Sarah @the_hedonista
