It’s Tuesday night, getting late, almost midnight and my eyes are falling sleepy. I’ve been back in Sydney a week now and it ‘s been interesting to say the least. Interesting because I didn’t know what to expect, what to encounter; a book, on the shelf, called Going Postal, the one that I wrote. Feels very weird.
So after that week I’m now sat on the floor in the apartment of Matty and Sal, my two friends from way back who are letting me sleep on their sofa while I’m in town. I know, very kind. I’m listening to this as I write;
I know, not the cheeriest songs, but it’s one of those nights. We’ve been out for Matty’s birthday. He’s 21 or so he tells us again, the three of us just going down to the local pub, the Welcome, for a cottage pie and a few pints of stuff. It’s been a good night. Then we came back home and I moved the bike under the shelter becasue the rain started and I don’t want to take Joe back a pile of rust. Then we came inside and tried to figure out how we can shift some copies of this sodding book.
It feels like I’m wading through an inky black night, not quite sure which way to turn or what to do, just kinda grasping at things and hoping they’re give me some foothold. Contacting magazines and newspapers, radio stations and TV, all in the name of publicity. We’ll see…
But I guess my mind’s on other things. We’re to settle, where to be. Where to lay down some roots this year. I need a base. I can’t live on settees forever so I’m looking for my place, wherever that may be. Here, there, everywhere, I guess we’re all looking for something and this is the something I’m looking for, the same pillow every night for a week. That’d be nice.
But my mum comes next week. She’s flying out to say hello to Sydney. She’s never been long haul before so this is her big test. She hates flying and is coming alone, brave or what, I know. No real plans for when she gets here but we’re going to give it a whirl, see where we get to, where we end up. All sorts of trouble I imagine but it’ll be interesting to see the worlds collide. England and Sydney, people from each, together, not on the other side of the world. Because otherwise it feels like seperate lives.
It’s just so good to be back. I love this place I really do. So many good friends in the neighbourhood and out and about. I’ve really enjoyed dropping by on the postie bike for a cup of tea and a yarn about old times. Maybe I could find a way to stay here, and thought of it I have. But I don’t know, it just doesn’t right. Home is where the heart is and that’s not here. So I guess I’ll just have to head to where it is.