Rain dribbles on the glass like saliva down a baby’s chin. The ocean’s frying pan grey. No matter.

Renting a beach house for a fortnight doesn’t guarantee sun every day. Besides, it’s an excuse for staying in my nightie, nestling into the sofa and sifting through piles of interior design magazines our landlords collect obsessively.

Not only do they treasure these Bibles of fashionable living, they fall victim to almost every fad. Glancing up from an article about the necessity of small, irregular shaped vases I notice similar small, irregular shaped vases on the table by my feet.

My husband’s a bit wistful about the old dinghy that has been sawn in half, painted white and turned into a “characterful shelving unit” complete with oars.

This piece of nautical kitch dominates the living area and stores next to nothing for the space it takes up – though I suppose the oars could be useful for biffing burglars.

He’s seen an article in one of the magazines explaining how to make one. It’s a lot of work, apparently. No way are we having a chopped up boat back home, not even in the new spare room earmarked to be his office.

Puffing in from his morning jog, he asks if I’d like a blanket which is so thoughtful he almost deserves a chopped up dinghy. But standing there in a glow of sweat and rain he makes me feel guilty.

Since arriving three days ago we’ve eaten and drunk ourselves into a stupor. He probably burned up half last night’s dinner while he was out thundering through the drizzle.

Sighing, I get dressed, tie my walking shoes and slide into a parka. Aspects of the Australian bush I’ve learned to love. Slashes of primary colour against grey leaves turn out to be parrots squawking like Aussie sheilas.

Half way down the tree-lined drive, I hear a fearsome growl – wild pig? It’s a koala the size of a five year old child snoring in the fork of a branch half way up a eucalypt tree.

Even after living in Australia nearly a decade, I’m surprised how available wildlife icons are. Here on Mornington Peninsula, an hour’s drive from Melbourne, yellow road signs feature silhouettes of kangaroos. A few years ago one of our school dads lost his life when his car collided with a jumping jack.

Out past the gate, a bearded dad trudges past holding an umbrella over a glum baby in his backpack.

Negotiating puddles, I take a wrong turn and wander through the camp grounds, which at this hour is like strolling through someone’s bedroom. Trying to avoid staring at men munching toast in their undies, I savour the aroma of bacon and eggs.

Life among the damp tents and caravans seems intimate and accepting, not unlike how Iron Age villages might have been. Half expecting to hear cries of women giving birth and men hammering tools inside their tents, I accelerate towards the beach.

Like acres of spilt salt, sand stretches to dishwater sea. It’s empty except for a few kids who signed up for Learn to Surf classes yesterday when it was sunny. They squeeze reluctantly into already sopping wet suits.

Watching a squall ride in with the waves and a scattering of seagulls, I hear the sofa calling.