Before the ruinous propaganda of ABC programming was foisted upon this hamlet, and prior to the real estate market transforming avarice from a sin to an aspiration there was once a time when ‘The Heads’ spoke in hushed tones to a blessed few. When Hitchcock Avenue was no more than a white timber pizza shop fronted by bleached blonde boys, sucking Big Ms and discussing the perfect wave. Where barefooted kids played pinnies, mini-golf and tramps on Bridge Road. Where winter was an eerie, Twin Peaks-esq experience complete with one-armed residents and gruff fishermen heading out for Mulloway and toffee-crusted speech patterns were only ever heard in the golf-club dining room (or certain pockets of Riverside Terrace). It is no more. Stepford wives and and the financially ‘comfortable’ now rule, bringing along with them their usual swag of cushion shops, townhouses and traffic jams. Humble street fast becoming an irony as its beach shacks, even architect-designed homes like this lovely one, fall to development year after year. These things, we remember.