Monthly Archives: March 2010

I have just recently flown back into the stunningly beautiful city of Sydney. I think I was one of a small few to know what to expect, 80% of my plane snapped their heads to the left side windows, audible gasps filled the cabin, shutters of cameras serenaded our descent. As we flew over the CBD it was obvious that they had never seen the way in which the great steel Harbour Bridge sparkled upon the reflection of the water, the giant creamy points of the Opera House.

Their excitement was infectious. As their necks settled back into their bodies as the less glamourous Kingsford Smith Airport loomed into view I gazed patiently forward, equipped with a broad grin. Home! Whilst they were buzzing at the landmarks I was impatient with the other things this great city offers me everyday.

I love Sydney, I’m so proud to call such a beautiful, vibrant city home. I have never been one of those “God, I wish I lived in Melbourne” people (don’t get me wrong, the south is great but Sydney roolz). I like our fashions, our food. I love the way we celebrate whether it be Mardi Gras, a casual house party at the boys house in McMahons Point or the ultimate party – New Years Eve. We rang in this year cheering our heads off atop a rooftop in Potts Point, liquored to the max and surrounded by the most beautiful of people we saw the new year before the rest of the world – and we did it the best.

I like the dingy side alley ways in Surry Hills as much as I love the triangle created between Louis Vuitton, Chanel and Gucci. I love how the relaxed, Bondi lifestyle is a reality – not a myth. Where trackies, fur and heels are an appropriate (and stylish) combination. Colour is embraced, sequins are plentiful and inspiration is never lacking.

I understand the uncontainable excitement when Sydney looms across that little plane window, they are too tiny to show its whole story. You get such a small glimpse of such a fantastic place, you get out of the plane and you open your Lonely Planet and you go explore. But Sydney is more than words on tourist guides, pictures in travel magazines.

Sydney is being able to cry your eyes out in an alleyway in Darlinghurst during the middle of the day and no one bats an eyelid. Sydney is being locked on the upper level of a club when all your friends are downstairs because a girl fell down and smashed the glass bottom (funnier than it reads). Sydney is falling asleep under the trees at the Rose Bay marina with your flatmate and her puppy. Sydney is birthday breakfasts at Bills, Surry Hills. Sydney is the Thursday night all-you-can-eat pizza and 2-for-1 cocktails at Fringe Bar. Sydney is the god awful public transport system we call CityRail. Sydney is the cracks in the pavement outside Pretty Dog in Newtown that spilts your heels in two. Sydney is picking your Mum up from work then going with her to Louis Vuitton in your PJs. Sydney is the Lemon & Mint granita at Max Brenner. Sydney is Romance Was Born barnacles with nothing underneath.


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Favourite. Song. Ever. Or at least one of.

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Her Perfect Day.

You wake her up. Light taps on the door frame warn of the puppy that is about to barrel through the house, fly through the air and start her day with a crash. You don’t live together but you know where she hides the key, you know what her favourite tea is and you bring it to her in bed in her favourite pot. It is early, sunlight dapples softly in the window and a breeze is rifling through the trees outside.

She showers. Casual and loose she dresses down in an oversized white shirt and big, black Ellery sunnies, thongs and her trusty Nightingale (which you have pre-packed with surprise trinkets like almonds and a mini flashlight). You pile into your car, puppy in tow. A stop by the local cafe for more supplies, gooey cheese and marinated artichokes, figs and pears. You pile into the car once again.

The lake. It is beautifully quiet and isolated. You bring the tattered picnic blanket out of the boot and lay it down under a huge Oak tree. The puppy runs off to chase the ducks, to fall into the water. She slices the pear thinly, opens the round of brie which is positively oozing over with fig and honey. You both lay under the tree, propped up on the pillows you kindly thought to bring. Out of her bag you pull out a long white envelope made of thick card. Inside she finds her daily horoscopes – cut from every newspaper, plus a special one written by you. She loves it. Kisses you on the cheek, you wink and let her know this will be a beautiful day.

You find that you have both drifted into sleep under the huge Oak, the puppy has retired with fatigue from running and has settled at your feet. Around you lay the weekend papers you attempted to read, the university notes you attempted to highlight. You load everything back into the car and both climb in for the slow drive home. Get home, and pile out. Leftover foods get packed into the fridge and she starts the washing up. You go and put on a mixtape with all her favourite songs. Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Betterman by John Butler Trio, Mystify by INXS. You grab her by the hand and you dance around her around the livingroom. You dip her, spin her and make her laugh like nothing else.

You both finish cleaning and then find yourself on the balcony, leaning against the rail and looking out over the horizon as the sun begins to dim. You are ready to go again, she quickly runs inside to change her thongs to her trusty Balenciaga booties, you hate them and she loves them. Hair gets scraped back into a messy ponytail, fly away bits frame her face and she hopes dinner is somewhere casual.

She drives you this time, her car is micro and zippy – perfect for sneaky, sneaky parking. You direct her to the local Tapas bar, exactly what she was hoping for. You walk in the door, hand in hand and you are greeted by a clutch of your best friends. Hugs and kisses abound, petting of new hair dos, excited cries when she hears happy news. Dinner is already on the table – patatas al ajillo, zucchini relleno, croquettas de bonito, mejillones a la marinera. You tuck in, big bowls of bread and neverending jugs of sangria. It is the perfect night for communal dining, then followed by a big communal dance off. The owners don’t mind your rowdiness, they joined your table for dinner after all, helping to intersperse the conversation with fragmentos de espanol.

It’s late by the time you get around to leaving, outside is dark and misty – that morning breeze has developed into a gentle chill. Too sangria’d to drive home, you both decide to walk. The 2kms home seems like a breeze, her shoes are made for walking and you both swing your joined arms. You talk about your day, you talk about your week. You talk really deep politics and life lessons. She oftens break free from your hand, hers fly everywhere as they go about descriptions, but they always find a way back into your palm.

In the door and straight to bed. You stay at her house tonight. The puppy has slept all night on the big leather sofa, he leaves an imprint that will last until morning as he jumps off and follows into her bedroom. You both undress, and climb under all the sheets and pillows. You pull up the big faux otter fur that she just loves to sleep under, but she is already close to sleep. She has curled up into your side and doesn’t stir despite all the wriggling you have to do to bury into the covers. You kiss her on the forehead, she felt that and grins, eyes open a crack. You beam back at her and tell her you had the perfect day. She echoes the same sentiments as you both turn to stare out the window, at a night covered in stars. Her heads gets heavy and within no time, she is asleep on your chest.

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“We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we’re not alone.”

Orson Welles

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Bang Gangs ‘Party Party’ tranny and her faithful dancing buddies.

Friday the 13th, 2006.

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“Sisters annoy, interfere, criticize.  Indulge in monumental sulks, in huffs, in snide remarks.  Borrow.  Break.  Monopolize the bathroom.  Are always underfoot.  But if catastrophe should strike, sisters are there.  Defending you against all comers.”


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She has only ever been in love once and she can’t see it happening again ever again. Once was enough. Once was more than enough. Two years have flown by, yet the familiar knife-in-gut feeling is back.

It started back in High School, that funny melting pot of teenage hormones, underage drinking and the desire to fit in. She had heard about him within minutes of walking onto the grounds of her new school. He had hosted wild parties where girls had been paid to make-out with each other. He was on the rugby team and he was super-fast. When he introduced himself she started to understand the fuss, but he was a total jock and in fine form they got together for about a month before it ended. Abruptly.

She turned 18 in the Autumn of their final year of school. The girls had organised a big surprise party with (nearly) all her friends. He walked in after she had arrived, a friend in tow. She hadn’t expected to see his face here, their relationship had drifted into very casual banter when they passed each other on the way to maths. Still, he entertained her guests with stupid party tricks and didn’t leave until he made sure her parents had no cleaning left to do. It was a different boy from the one she dated in Year Ten.

Two weeks later he called her up. He wanted to see Spiderman and wondered if she felt like a drive. The movie was one of the worst she had ever seen, and the cliche stop by McDonalds on the way home was worse. They stopped by Hawkesbury Lookout on the drive back and in between bites of McDonalds cookie he was able to formulate the following: “I think we should date again. I won’t dump you after a month”. A casual nod in agreement, a kiss on the cheek when he saw her too her front door hid the fact that deep down, her heart was pounding out her chest.

HSC exams came and went, they graduated High School, they went on separate Schoolies trips but they made things work. No one thought they would last past their final weeks at school so when Christmas came around and they spent the holiday season at both family homes it became obvious they were more insync than they were given credit for.

January and the hot, hot sun saw them camping, surfing, road-tripping and when chained to home, it saw them on LiLos floating around his Mums pool. It saw many a night out in the City, followed by an early morning nap in his prized Liberty wagon (complete with mattress in the boot). January to February to March. She started university and he moved to Sydney. Time constraints and a heavy study load made it harder and harder for them to maintain the carefree attitude that had dictated their relationship – hand-delivering flowers to her uni class on her birthday is the one happy memory from those early days, the others concern screaming rows down the phone and in person. A smashed window, resulting in glass cuts up an arm was the low point.

Soon enough the end of the year was looming and they up’d themselves to Hong Kong for the festivities. That was until he changed their flights to come home early for Daft Punk. To him, Hong Kong was a holiday but to her Hong Kong had become a make or break point. Incredibly unhappy she was staying because she had been force-fed the Disney world view, Love Will Conquer All. Unfortunately, their love had to conquer more than what Disney did. Drug addiction, different wants and needs, compulsive spending, hidden feelings and wandering eyes.

They came back from Hong Kong in different minds, he was oblivious to how unhappy she was. She had met someone whilst away who reminded her of the Boy she had fallen in love with all those years ago. Sitting on a bench wrapped in someonelses leather jacket, she watched as her boyfriend skated up and over the obstacles in The Bay all the while letting someone else nuzzle into her neck, telling her all the things that he should have been saying. He missed the whole thing, he only saw someone sleeping on her shoulder.

Once again, another summer flew past. More time spent with each others family, more mini-holidays. More unhappiness that Love wasn’t what it was meant to feel like. Suddenly, she found herself moving to Sydney. A unit in Rose Bay was close enough to him, close enough to give one last fighting chance. It lasted until her first day back at uni. She told him in the heat of the moment that he could fuck right off, outta her life, outta her head. That he didn’t deserve her time anymore. It worked. He left her like she asked him too.

She was gutted. She suddenly found herself alone in a big city, she was only there for him and he had now gone.

They were an intensely passionate couple, when they were in love they loved each other like no one could (or perhaps, ever will) and when they fought, they fought with the same passion and conviction as what they loved with. They weren’t the High School cookie-cutter couple, they based their relationship around a deep friendship that sadly got burnt out in the fire.

Two years on, the couple still don’t really talk. They pass in the street and wave. He comes to her work and they share banter like she does with every other customer. They half-heartedly organise to see friends they met travelling overseas and they occasionally share a drink or two. But what they had? There is no evidence of it. No. That is gone forever, it lives on only in her inability to love like that again. She won’t commit to one person, monogamy now bores her terribly. Her boyfriends have a shelf-life no longer than a month or two. No one can live up to the standards he set. No one really knows her like he did. As if she would want them too. When her eyes still prickle with tears at the mere thought of what is lost, why would see risk adding to that pain?

She knows that He was her One True Love. And that yes, she will have to settle for Mr. Second Best.

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