Home

On Saturday I took Nut for a walk in the park across the road from me. It wasn't as cold as it has been, the sky blue. Two muscly gay guys were throwing practise punches, a Japanese guy was playing the didgeridoo on his own, very serene, a small group of urbanites were standing in a circle taking part in a dog obediance class. I looked around and felt happy. This small funky park with the silly Ikea furniture is still new and is a good idea. I only just noticed that I can see Centrepoint Tower gleaming between old and new buildings. I read the plaque describing the history of this little spot and I like that it used to home brothels, factories, film studio offices, Chinese, Italians, Greeks, and now inner city trendies.

I have lived here for two years now and it just dawned on me why I love it so much. Surry Hills, like me, is completely bobo - boheme bourgeois. It is wanky and yuppy with cafes packed to the brim with brunch heads, reading the paper over poached eggs and then complaining that people just don't talk anymore; it has laundromats that serve espresso and butchers that look like swanky boutiques. It can also be seedy and in parts rundown and I love leaning out my balcony to have a smoke and seeing the terraces across the road, all colours, new, old.

So I am home and always aware how lucky I am to live here. A place that is just me.