By LUCY GREY
We are on the move. We are leaving the town we have lived in for the last three years and heading to greener pastures, oh wait, is that a euphemism for death? Because that’s not part of the plan. I am having a break-down about this and it’s fair to say my constant navel-gazing is sending my family and friends mad.
Specifically the reason they are so over me at the moment is that I have spent exactly the last three years bemoaning this very town and plotting my escape. We moved here for my husband’s job and I have played the role of disgruntled spouse to perfection.
I was born and raised in Sydney, and we moved here directly from the inner city, so the contrast was jarring to say the least. We arrived in The Bay (not Summer Bay, but we too have an enviable caravan park) with a newborn babe in arms, our meagre possessions in tow and set about settling in. For me, settling in largely consisted of ear-bashing many a poor soul who had the misfortune of sitting next to me at a dinner party about the long list of reasons Sydney is vastly superior to my adopted town, yep run a mile if you see me at a BBQ.
“There’s no decent coffee,” I moaned.
“There is literally not a shop open on a Sunday,” I cried.