Remember when a date with Tom Cruise was tempting...

Love a lamb roast - it's one of the few appealing cuts of organic meat that Mr B can source from the supermarket. There's always an awkward moment when he returns from the outside world, my cave man with his kill, and I ask whether the woolly mammoth had a nice life.

I've been thinking that tempting some of our footloose and fancy free friends with a hot midday meal might be a good way to socialise - I'll only serve meals I can make fairly well in advance, and The Berry can snooze in her own bed while we chomp and chat. Our first attempt, I must say, was a great success. We invited just one couple, an easy-going pair, and we had the roast with cauliflower cheese, beans and polenta.

A partial overhead of the spread - I'm a bit sheepish about taking photos when we have company...

Super fresh and delicious cauli, covered with cheesy sauce, reminds me of my childhood.

The lamb roasted on a bed of onion, garlic, lemon and rosemary. We gobbled up the gooey roast garlic cloves that turn to sweet delicious morsels in the oven. Pan juices were also whipped into one intense gravy with a splosh of red wine...

The little lamby, studded with garlic and home-grown rosemary. Thank you, lamby.

Tony the pony

Meet our new family member, Tony. He was knitted with much, much love by one of The Berry's many clever Aunties, who had never knitted before his creation. He is A-Mazing.

Through it all

We're going to a wedding today. I had to pop out to make a last-minute, tummy slimming, leg warming undergarment purchase. Very mundane. I had left my baby behind, at home with her dad. I knew the two of them would be just fine. The sun was shining and it was early. I turned the pop music up loud.

In a world that seems to get colder and colder

Don't you worry 'cause

My love will only get stronger and stronger

'Cause I, I'm gonna love you gonna hold you through it all

I, I'm gonna love you gonna never let you fall

Through it all

When you're down and out

Losing dignity

Don't let go of me (hold on)

Surely this is a brighter day right in front of me (hold on)

If you really looked inside

You would finally realise

You don't have to cry (no more)

All you have to do is see

That you can believe in me

And I will never leave

'Cause I, I'm gonna love you gonna hold you through it all

I, I'm gonna love you gonna never let you fall

Through it all

And then (it's your fault Alicia Keys), the world went a bit wobbly. I've struggled with this love. Sometimes I think it isn't there. That I haven't bonded with Baby Berry. If I love her, why this awful empty feeling when she cries? Why this anxious worry? This isn't the feeling I call "love", that makes me want to push my body against my mate, that reassures and buoys me up.

But as the world wobbled all wet with tears, I made a baby step towards understanding mother love - fierce, protective, fraught... And it's definitely there.

Back to Bom

I realise, precious readers, you know that I am now writing these posts from Sydney, catching up on the run "back to Bom", as one of Salman Rushdie's characters exclaims...

Bombay was a gorgeous city in many ways, with Colaba reminding me of more of gentrified Potts Point than anywhere in India or Asia. We'd planned intentionally to visit India as our last country so we could "toughen up" before arriving. We'd been bombarded with plenty of OTT anecdotes, all of which finale with the unprepared westerner being swindled, bamboozled, and eventually defeated by the intensity of the experience that is "India". So far, though, I hadn't felt it, though I'd been jostled, ogled, harassed, guilt-ed, frustrated, baffled, and very, very hot, I'd never felt completely overwhelmed. Until we were wondering down a wide avenue near our hotel, around 10 at night. It was a lovely street, with big old trees, big old government buildings and big new hotels. And people were calmly making up their beds for the night on the footpath. Getting settled, arranging their things, tucking in babies, everything you'd expect to do in your bedroom before sleep. These were not crazed, drug-addicted or otherwise unstable people. Not uncivilised or anti-social, or even very poor by Indian standards. But this was their lot. This was their life. And it was easy to forget as I dodged touts and friendlies and souvenir sellers and rickshaw drivers, thinking I was clever and crafty and had this India thing all sewn up. The fact is I am now in my nice house with all my nice things, worrying my nice worries, oh-so-important. And those people, hundreds of thousands, millions of them, make their beds on footpaths, with a life so different to mine it's kinda hard to comprehend, even though really, they're just the same as me.

Cocktails and Dreams

It seems to be a trend. Ros and Blake book into snazzy resort. Weather turns to shit. Oh well, at least it adds a bit of drama... We spent three days at the Ramada Caravela Beach Resort, eating and drinking ourselves stupid, and lazing by the pool - that is when there wasn't torrential rain.

It was great to relax for a few days, and I'm sure the Indian tradies doing renovations to the other wing of the resort also enjoyed our stay, along with the other bikini-clad western women they ogled constantly, despite our complaints. We also had amusing beverage-related interactions with the friendly but undertrained staff who were oblivious to our requests for the same water that the Indian guests were drinking, and completely overwhelmed by our repeated request to know the variety of wines available - these, once ordered, were inevitably out of stock. But we got lucky and drank some lovely french Cote du Rhone. The same can't be said for the cocktails, but what should you expect from a teetotaling barman?

The Beach

Ah, Goa, the tourist cess-pitt of India. When searching the net for accommodation, I found a comment from a guy who thought Goa was the best country he'd ever been to. Never realised he was in India - fly in, do some yoga, smoke some hash, lie on a beach, fly home again. Nice and easy. And with Goa's Portuguese heritage, longstanding interaction with Western tourists, and tropical beaches, it's understandable (though not excusable), to see how such a misconception could come about. But for us, first stop was neighbouring country, I mean, state, Karnataka. The main beach town for tourists is Gokarna, which we foolishly approached by bus on yet another shitty, bottom jarring dirt track. And despite what we heard from jaded hippies, the town seemed to be maintaining its authenticity in the face of increasing numbers of travellers finding Goa too hectic (though we were there right at the beginning of the season). From the main beach, it was a three hour adventure in 40 degree heat to make it over the headland, past the reject Kudle beach to Om beach, where we settled in the midst of a community of Isrealis.

Beautiful though it was, Om wasn't feeling like home. The young Isealis were learning fire twirling, pumping out euro-trance, playing bad chess, swanning around in their undies and flirting with the yoga teacher. Our last evening's entertainment came courtesy of a Pommy drug dealer trying to ingest as much hash, rum, and ketamine as possible before his girlfriend arrived to drag him off to an Ashram to detox. The perfect straight guy compliment to his theatrics, the guy's mate leaned over at one point and muttered in a cockney accent "He just hasn't realised yet, like, he's in India, you know what I mean?" And we did.

Our next stop was Goa proper. The traveller hub of Palolem was a rats nest of development and commercialism the Gorkanans had escaped by the skin of their teeth. There was even a coffee shop in Palolem. I assume this was supposed to be a "Bad Thing". Apart from a traumatic bikini wax experience (you'd think all those wiry-haired Israeli girls would have been practice enough!), the western comforts of Palolem were fine by me! It was back to our favourite routine, hiring a motorbike and cruising around the tiny hamlets and coastal villages of the area, stopping in to perv at 5-star resorts along the way. Bliss...

Kerala

What a relief! A whole other world awaited us in the "backwaters" of Kerala - a region feeling more Caribbean than Indian, lush and tropical, relatively prosperous, and scattered with lazy buggers like us looking to float around on a houseboat for a couple of days. We flew into Cochin airport, and after an unexpectedly expensive taxi ride, a midnight stroll around Cochin to find a room, and an early walk back to the bus station, we arrived in Alleppey and it was good. Mainly due to a little establishment called the Indian Coffee House, where we had REAL coffee, blushing pink rose flavoured milk and crazy-cheap biryani.

But the whole point was to get out on a Kettuvallam, the 'traditional' rope, coconut fibre and bamboo boats that were originally poled through the narrow canals and calm lakes of the region, Of course now they're built in steel and plastic, covered in rope, and fitted with motors so tourists can be taken on pleasure trips - and it was our pleasure! Our little boat was staffed by three sweet but sleepy Keralans - Matthew, Arjay and Sanjay, who cooked us feasts, pointed out birdies and other cool stuff, escorted Ros to nice swimming spots and had arvo naps.






We were visited by floating fish sellers, stopped off to check out one of the oldest Christian churches in India, as glittering and vibrant as you'd hope, and has two quite spectacular sunsets from the comfort of our hammock laden vessel.