As we drag our sorry, depressing existences by week 11 of lockdown, I’m affected by intense cravings to be actually, actually dangerous in Sydney.
Not dangerous as in attend a superspreader anti-lockdown protest. Particularly, I wish to bounce in a time journey machine to 2002 and dance until daybreak at a Mad Racket celebration at Marrickville Bowling Membership. (Oh merciful Lord, ship me again to 1 such superb evening. On the finish of it I swear on my grandmother’s grave to hop again into the time machine and dutifully serve out the remainder of this lockdown sentence.)
I wish to be dangerous in methods I’ve by no means needed to be dangerous earlier than, as a result of Sydney is normally such a scrumptious place to be actually dangerous. I wish to go on a three-day beer bender with a pack of rugby league gamers in Cronulla.
I wish to conduct an open-secret affair with a disgraced politician within the overpriced eating places of Paddington. I wish to lose all my cash on the monitor. I wish to get a face tattoo in Kings Cross at 2am.
For the report, I help lockdown restrictions. I’m concurrently dedicated to doing my bit to avoid wasting lives whereas being one sourdough starter away from utterly dropping my thoughts.
I’m so bored with being a very good lady toiling away at my stay-at-home lockdown hobbies. Screw your air fryer. Screw your cryptocurrency bets.
If I go one other Friday evening doomswiping Tinder as I swig on alcohol-free tinnies, I’ll take a hammer to my telephone.
I really feel like a child caught in a very lengthy and boring automotive trip griping within the again seat: “Are we there yetttttttt?” However on this state of affairs, I’m additionally Mum within the driver’s seat, having to plan elaborate methods to amuse myself lest I am going batshit loopy.
It’s come to this: I need one thing – something – to occur. To me, not by me. I’m thirsting for the organised chaos distinctive to huge cities and the pre-lockdown Sydney we knew and liked. Town that might all the time be relied upon for a weekend of unscripted drama or unmapped journey.
I wish to exit for “a quiet bevvy or two” and wind up seven hours later at Institution bar surrounded by coked-up funding bankers. I wish to do burnouts in Liverpool. I wish to seal the cope with Chinese language builders at Golden Century – a three-decade outdated Sydney establishment that, like my sanity, could not survive this lockdown.
When the Italian metropolis of Siena locked down, residents took to their balconies to sing in solidarity. In different locked-down Australian cities they flow into healthful inspo memes and scrawl on the pavement in chalk: #WereInThisTogether #WeCanDoThis.
However Sydney? We break up town in two by slapping down harsher restrictions on town’s much less well-off western half after which collectively added Crime Stoppers to our telephone favourites.
I’ve a love-hate relationship with Sydney. Once I lived in Beijing and London, Sydney appeared just like the arse finish of nowhere. Once I lived in Darwin, I noticed how repulsively overpriced and congested Sydney was.
Over time I’ve spent a whole lot of time in several components of Australia and seen my hometown by their eyes: a crass, indulgent, corrupt sin metropolis.
And you realize what? They’re proper. Our metropolis is dangerous. In actual fact, it’s the baddest bitch on the town. It’s all of the districts of Panem. It’s Botox meets baklava. And I wouldn’t have it some other approach.
To all my dangerous Sydney sinners: I miss you. Let’s have “a quiet bevvy or two” on the opposite aspect.