I live in a flat on the edge of the cliffs at Bondi with the sea out the front and all of life a few steps from my door. The place is in a constant state of flux and ferment. One month celebrities are being filmed on our door step. The next month you could shoot a cannon down Campbell Parade without hitting more than two or three paparazzi. It makes me feel I need to tell you all about it before every last trace of the Bondi that existed when I bought my flat in 1985 is gone.
Things keep vanishing into thin air, like the old petrol bowsers over the road from the beach, which evaporated after the Russian gangsters who ran the petrol station were locked up for drug dealing. Then the forecourt where the bowsers had stood also disappeared. James Packer had come down the hill from Bellevue Hill to build himself a three-level apartment with a two-level fish tank on the very spot where the Russians had hidden their heroin in wheel rims.
But more of that another day. I just wanted to say that in backstreetbondi.com, I’ll be reporting on the life around me as it goes on splendidly reinventing itself, and the life in days gone by, before the people who remember it are gone, too. So here goes.
Read on… Elisabeth Wynhausen
Bondi and the Bondi Brand