A Sydney Sojourn

I recently spent my mid-year holidays interning in Sydney, working to (not) pay the bills by day and living in a ramshackle Surry Hills terrace with strangers who became friends by night. It was nice to escape from…


Here’s a very little bit of what I learnt there….

Boys are a different species. After living with three of them I have ascertained that their main priorities are pretty much the three B’s: bongs, brews and blowjobs. Just kidding…about the last one anyway. What I did gather was that 1— they are generally happy to live a la Edward Cullen and spend most of the daylight hours in a state of slumber despite your insistence that they chaperone you to the Sunday market or try Bikram Yoga 2— they’re a lost cause in terms of cleanliness and general hygiene—it’s better to adapt accordingly rather than attempt to fight a losing battle and 3— unlike normal girls and small puppies they are too lazy to show affection too quickly and instead need to be slowly won over and coaxed out of their hovels with the promise of cigarette breaks and light laughter.

Sydney folk are a different species. The rumours are true guys, style starts in Melbourne and deteriorates the further North you get, am I right or am I right?! Actually, I did not find this to be true, I just read it in a magazine a few years ago. To the contrary, the fash-ON was quite inspiring harbour side, with people more adventurous palette wise and less likely to be decked out in head to toe chain store a la the Melbourne General Pants uniform of vans, cut off denim shorts and a cheap floral shirt. More to come on this…

The animals are a different species. All the animals wore adorable jumpers and outfits whilst being walked by their lycra clad, outdoorsy Mummy’s and Daddy’s. My favourite furry friends were a masculine, imposing dog I spotted decked out in a knitted cropped hot pink jumper (he looked humiliated) and a wee pooch with a penchant for singing named Dean Martin that I made the acquaintance of in a ritzy Elizabeth Bay café right near Lindsay Fox’s mansion. His Mummy seemed like a right fruit loop and was crooning and howling to him intermittently over lunch at a nearby table, where she ordered him a doggy latte and a $14 baguette. I shit you not. Below is a paparazzi shot I discretely took of Dean Martin and Mummy…See, truth really is stranger than fiction!




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