Going away for the weekend always pushes you up against yourself; in the fogged up mirror of a bathroom with a gentle shower dribble and a mustard vanity unit. If you close your eyes and dream enough, you can picture yourself in a different life, living here instead:

Fish and chips for dinner on Friday nights and the track to the beach where the locals surf in six degrees and run their dogs off their leash right up to the faces of the cliff. Colleen from down the road brings you lemons from her tree and each December you dust off the tent to set it up for the summer.

The op shops selling succulents you would pay thirty dollars for in the city and they come in china cups with the Queen on it. You forgot you loved rhubarb but they sell that in jam jars too. There is one cafe with a proper brunch menu and on Sundays some chill man plays Jack Johnson covers and for the most part it's cute as opposed to annoying.

On Saturday nights there is one pub and sometimes a band will stop by. It's fun most of the time because there are always people passing through. You used to be the passer througher but now you are the one who has stayed on. It seems odd to think this is what you want but that sensation is also a nice one.

There's no extractor fan but if you wipe away the residue, it's your shower-flushed face you can see. Is that you in there? You think. Through the wall you can hear everyone laughing and the tops of a few bottles of shiraz coming off. It's cold outside but here, inside, it is warm.