Moving from the Central West to Sydney was always going to be pretty wack. You know, the electricity, the running water and the gays. But there are far more disturbing things…
- Kissing people as a greeting. This is a fabulous way to catch me off guard and make me far more awkward than I naturally am. And I am awkward. Say hello to me and I blush, cough and hide in the toilets breathing into my trusty paper bag. I don’t understand this greeting unless you are my family or boyfriend. I think there should be an unwritten law about this – unless you have seen me nude you do not get to touch any part of me with your lips. And yes, I hear you, my family have seen me nude. In the country that’s how we say hello.
- Seeing `live’ music played on a laptop. I like to call this `cheating’. I get that modern music these days is filled with robotic doo whoop a dops and I’ll admit I’m a fan. But it’s almost too much to bear when a musician is singing over pre-recorded vocals. I think if you’re a solo artist and you can’t recreate your sound live without the help of a Macbook you should go back to your toll booth operating career. Or at least get a friend to pretend to play a synthesiser or something. Even that would be more impressive than launching Garage Band. I’d rather sit at the Vic in Orange and listen to someone play Lithium by Nirvana or Disarm by Smashing Pumpkins. Again.
- Lunch hour. Since the beginning of 2007 I’ve been under the impression that no one actually worked in the city except for I. I’m lucky enough to work staggered hours and so I rarely ever see anyone when I go out and get my reasonably priced $15.50 salad. Yesterday I didn’t work and was in Pitt St at 1pm. And ohmigod why would anyone ever live in Sydney? You can’t fling a second-hand purse without hitting two businesswoman, a CEO, a cleaner, a homeless man, a child in a pram, a group of emo schoolkids, a nun, a man with dreadlocks painting bad portraits, two secretaries in high-waisted polyester skirts and the woman behind the Chanel counter. As my mum likes to note in large crowds – `imagine all those poos!’