A Warning. This blog post MAY contain some Generalisations.

Balmoral Beach is the playground of Sydney’s Mega Rich. It is situated near Mosman, a suburb where the men work 18 hours a day and the women wear white pants. It is also our nearest beach. But we do not live near Mosman.
Sometimes we will get up on the weekend and make our way down to the ritzy water. My kids call it Sparkle Beach,  because as you drive towards it,  the water indeed sparkles. Probably with the thousands of diamonds that have fallen out of engagement rings there. Getting a park can be very difficult there, as it is very popular with families with toddlers,  as there are no waves. Once you do actually get a park,  you get to pay $12 for the privilege. Which is just fucking outrageous if you ask me.  Mosman Council does this, I presume,  to keep the poor people out. We get around this by whacking it on our credit card. Ironic really that the interest we will pay on that parking will be soon lining the pocket of the banker standing in front of me at the cafe there…..
For your information,  people at Balmoral drink Lattes.
This morning we went to Balmoral. We see our boys a bit like working dogs. You have to run them and physically tire them out. Then they will be more submissive during the rest of the day. That is our theory anyway. We arrived and I sorted out the fucking outrageous parking fee while Mr Woog and the boys started towards to beach. Towards the exact part of the beach where I hate to sit. So I screamed out over the 100 meters.
Mr Woog looked like he wanted to dig a large hole and crawl into it.  When I caught up to him,  he indicated his displeasure that I had bought a bit of my Blacktown District Heritage to our day.
The water was cold. Like freezing. I had a rather interesting conversation with Harry about what happens if you have testicles and jump into the cold water.  They apparently end up in your stomach.  Jack complained about the beach, the wind, the sand and the water so I told him to go and speak to his Dad about changing it all so it suited him better.  I tucked into a coffee and the paper. I was content.
I glanced up occasionally and made a few mental notes.  Large groups of dad stood around toddlers,  happily splashing on the shore.  The Dad’s had silver hair and all wore navy knee length shorts and grey t-shirts. They were drinking lattes and talking about their work in various financial institutions. They mainly had these large, ugly straw hats on.  The were not like the dad’s you could imagine at Cronulla or Upcencoast.*
Large family groups were setting up camp under the shade of the huge Morten Bay Figs. They were there to celebrate a birthday. I could tell this as there was a balloon tied to a branch.
There were loads of youngish couples with Bugaboos walking along the promenade. They all just looked exhausted.
And then there were the youthful looking retirees with matching fresh polo shirts and matching designer dogs. Vigorously walking along the beach with a small plastic bag of dog shit hanging from their wrist.
The time ticked over and we called time on our time in the sun.  We detoured quickly via the playground to give the Woogette’s one last hurrah. While I was standing there I heard this sweet voice sing out from the swings.
“Hermes! Hermes come to mummy!”
All I could think of was “Hermes you poor thing. Your mum is an asshole.”
I signalled to Mr Woog that it was time to go. We waved goodbye to Sparkle Beach, got back into the Mazda and wound our way up the hill, past the mansions and back to WoogsWorld.  Where I sit and type and think of potential baby names for Mosman infants.
I am thinking Dotti, Sussan or BestnLess.
*Upcencoast is the local pronunciation of Up the Central Coast.