In 55 days I'm turning 30. I'm choosing to celebrate it somewhere in the Sounds with eight of my family and friends and my dog.
I've got big ol' plans to take big ol' naps, pad around in a range of Kimberley River merino socks, play fetch with my dog, shout at everyone during games of Monopoly and mahjong, drink wine leftover from our wedding, mull some cheap red, attempt a clam bake, and cajole someone to make me the Lonely Garden cake.
In my search for the perfect house to rent, I came across this one. Which isn't for rent. So I'm dreadfully off task. But let's just take a minute to perve at this lucky person's house.
What blows my mind is that this is someone's holiday home. What does their real home look like? This is the kind of house that makes you want to work really hard at a job you're not particularly passionate about but pays buttloads of money. Something in IT or corporate law in a private firm or futures or whatever those guys in that Wolf of Wall Street movie were doing (which I refuse to watch 'cause I'm sick of movies that fail the Bechdel test).
I read some knowledgeable architects waxing lyrical about the interaction between the house and the bush or something. IDK. My favourite bits of the house? All the wood and the blatant modernism. Also. 'Dat rug. 'Dat Japanese-style tub. 'Dat Miele built-in dishwasher.
Work hard, kids. Work. Hard.
More photos from Flodeau