I saw a ticker tape news headline today that declared Sydney the most expensive city in the world.
That coincided today with Sydney having the worst weather in the world.
We’ve got the worst – ludicrously bad, lame and insensible – government.
And a slow, injured, confused football team to avoid. (That’s Geelong, not Sydney. Sydney are sponsored by the AFL. Like the past, they do things differently here.)
I’m no good at maths but I know two strikes and you’re out. We’re going. We’re off overseas to warm olde Englande to leave these horrors of the New World behind.
For six weeks.
We might be rich enough to live in Sydney but we can’t afford to travel the world for as long as that would properly take. I’ve got a job to do and a retired partner to lavish. Slavish.
It surprises me that Sydney might be the most expensive city in the world. If you’re buying a house or a coffee or bread or shoes or newspapers (as if) or paying rent or for electricity or food or a haircut or public transport it might be true.
But wine is cheap. Everything else is an indulgence. And I got a pair of thongs at K-Mart recently for two dollars.
They lasted two weeks. I’m still not sure if that’s a bargain. Globally, I think not.
We went on the weekend to see Mick Conway and Robbie Long at the Glebe town hall for $20. Try doing that on Broadway or the West End. Superb, local and lyrical. And cheap. I also learned why you should never bite a married woman on the thigh.
When wine and music are cheap, who needs the expensive stuff?
See you in a couple of months – if pilots and mysteries are on our side.