after yoga, after a long walk up to the main road, after a slow ride on the 380, after a time spent deciding what fish would be best battered and fried, and how many potato scallops to get, we finally sat down at a picnic bench facing the sea. it was just short of 4pm, lunchtime this saturday. between us and the view of sparkling bondi, a hefty blue eyed cod and a pile of chips, and two potato scallops.

something happens when chips are served up with anything. the anything is momentarily forgotten as you try to cram fat, hot, salty potato into your mouth. will you be so lucky (or restrained) this time that the delicate skin behind your front teeth will not end up scalded and hanging in painful little ribbons from the roof of your mouth?

and what of the batter? what of that last piece of crunchy brown that fell off the fish sometime during the eating?

“what shall i do with this batter?” i asked.

“leave it,” said nellie.

“i know.” i said this only because i thought she’d said “eat it”.

i’m not sure how the misunderstanding was cleared up, but there were still chips on the greaseproof paper, and i knew what fate would befall me, and them, if i didn’t throw them to the gulls.

my overarm was unstoppable, hurling chips one after the other at the horrible, beady-eyed things. the air was filled with birds and squawking and chips, and finally, that last piece of batter. my eyes were still filled with fire. i never felt so alive.