It's all in the Wrist

Trip Start May 19, 2009
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Trip End Ongoing


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Flag of Australia  , Queensland,
Sunday, September 12, 2010

And so, three weatherbeaten wanderers somehow found themselves in the millionaire's playground of Noosa, on Australia’s sunshine coast.  Sadly, the amigos were without d'Artagnan as Ben had jumped ship at Rainbow Beach to catch a flight out to New Zealand.  At least that’s what he told us.

It wouldn’t be the last of our goodbyes.  Miriam, too, was about to hot foot it back to Sydney, but not before a we’d indulged in a little basking in the sunshine, and window shopping at the smorgasbord of Australia’s answer to Monte Carlo.

Jess, reluctantly, joined me on a hike through the National Park headland, and at the business end we met Miriam to, er, get down to business at the local nudist beach.  We couldn’t have been more excited about the chance to show our 'girls’ the light of day, not least for fear of the next person setting eyes on them suffering bleached bap blindness.  But then we weren’t the only ones who were pleased about it.

Within the space of half an hour, men seemed to congregate around us.  One chap even sprung to action to offer to take photos of the three of us.  How gentlemanly...and a gesture from an era before the invention of the modern camera’s timer function, one must presume.

A short time later, we caught sight of an older, rather rotund fellow sat on the sand behind us, and tried, impotently, to ignore the rhythmic movement of his wrist somewhere South of his pot belly.   

Noosa might be a playground for the rich and famous, but, as it turns out, it’s one hell of a pick and mix for perverts too.  And no, the baps didn’t get much baking that day.

Thankfully, solitude and a peeping-tom free sunlounger were within (firm) grasp, as Sal, my good friend from the Northern Territory cattle station, had invited me to spend a few days at her empty gaff in Noosa.  After momentary confusion as to whether she was referring to the house or the apartment (oh, how the other half live), I gave into the Pretty Woman cliché and felt momentarily like Vivien in the Beverley Wiltshire; dancing (badly) around the house sans prostitution and rich businessman, but donning the obligatory towel turban and ipod on full blast.

After exhausting myself of the dancefloor, I decided to cook up a storm for Ken, Sal’s partner, who was in hospital.  Choosing to whip up three soups and a beef casserole simultaneously may not have been the best idea, as two hours and two bottles of red later (only a dash of which made it into the stew rather than my belly), I’d ended up with four piles of over seasoned slop and one hell of a headache.

Well, you know what they say: it’s the thought that counts.    
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