Fleeing a psychotic French bitch-of-a-mother and a middle-aged paedophile, I claim refugee status on Legian beach. Breaking habits is infinitely more difficult than breaking waves, so it is with much excitement that I announce another, preferred kind of surfing, one that necessitates sand, sea and sun, those elements that the other kind of surfing deprives us. With the high-tide mark only 100m from this little cottage, a night-time lullaby comes gratis courtesy of the rumbling waves.
