I whipped Mona out of her snug parking spot without losing any paint and sped down the beach road, weaving through the speed chicanes like a slalom skier on speed. Mona wasn’t a brilliant car on corners but made up for it with grunt. I knew I was being an eco-savage owning an eight-cylinder car, but I tried to make up for it with green shopping bags and friendly cleaning fluids. Ahem . . . by not cleaning, actually! The car behind me tooted, and I realised I was still stopped at the crosswalk. I accelerated hard for three blocks, causing mobs of beach-goers to give me hot, sandy, indignant stares. I waved at them. Hot, indignant stares didn’t work on me. This was my town and my suburb. The Klintoff car park was chockers, so I had to park Mona around the corner and up the hill. That gave me time to brush my hair and re-lippy in private. But by the time I’d run down the hill and caught the beachfront gale head-on, my good work was all undone. My plan to enter the foyer looking groomed and pimped had turned into panic-at-the-disco.
