It’s 7:45 am on a Saturday and my alarm blares. I am up. My swim bag is already packed; I snap on my one-piece with crisscross back straps that leaves dark slashes of tan. Gulping water and toast, I pass a carrot to Tally – who wags her tail appreciatively but is deeply unimpressed her morning walk will be delayed – and head downstairs.
My ride is my neighbour R, a former life-saver hijabi. We are a well-oiled machine, carpooling for toll and petrol costs. In the quiet morning, Canterbury-Bankstown’s Palestinian flags on cars, manoush bakeries and bro-gyms give way to the skin-cancer clinics, juice bars and women in athleisure of Sydney’s eastern suburbs.
