“HERE we go … here we go … Swimming in my underwear” is the actual running commentary in my head as I breaststroke sedately forth at Freo’s South Beach. It’s a hot day, the water’s clear, and my brassiere is filling up with seawater.
I should point out here that I’ve come here alone… so that’s fairly daring, huh? Especially for an English – born into scratchy cardigans, eczema, adenoids and woollen tights. And I have no towel! How do you like them apples?
After I have pulled my dress back on, I bounce through Freo feeling liberated. The dress is way shorter than I would wear in Melbourne, but as it gets blown around the tops of my thighs and men grin at me, I start feeling like I’m the shit. I’d feel like this all the time if I lived in Perth, and I’d be able to wear pink lipstick and jewellery made out of shells, because I’d live by the sea. I’d feel like the shit and everyone would love it.
“Excuse me, but your dress is caught up at the back,” a nice lady with a pushchair whispers as I bend over in the markets. She sidles off apologetically. “Just thought I’d let you know.”
Keeper? No one shouted out: “Pardon me young lady, you do realise that’s your underwear?” so I think I got away with that bit.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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