Sometimes I feel a tad bipolar.
Truly, I love living in a big city. I love the people (MY people), the energy, the coffee, the stuff to do.
But then we go to Gerringong and I find myself squinting, trying to remember what's so damn awesome about traffic and small expensive houses on handkerchief sized blocks.
Not helped at all by the fact this (below) is what you look at over Mum and Dad's back fence:
Really crappy view.
Also not helped by the fact one of my beloved sisters (Suzie, the one who's not in Germany) is often around there, with her three small people. Kids love cousins.
I love the buildings (hayshed)…
…and the old fig trees…
…and Mum's garden…
…and the secret garden…
…and how with their grandparents my kids turn into;
Tigers in the long grass:
A farm girl:
Maybe it's because it's not where I live, that's what makes it a bolt hole.
(And there's Mum and a kettle and sometimes that's all you need.)