OK, so I’m doing this thing where I’m counting down to my 30th birthday with 30 kinds of wonderful. If you need to catch up, just start here.
Now let’s go!
28. Darlinghurst dandy
First up, an apology and confession. I have not felt very 30 kinds of wonderful this past week, and I suspect that this post may reflect that (and the silent few days that preceded it).
It is perhaps a failing of this blog that I tend to concentrate on the positive, conveniently editing out the negative. But while this might not be a true reflection of life as a whole, it is a true reflection of the way I like to view life.
Sadly, a pretty major part of my birthday celebrations took a bad turn last week. Someone close to me opened up some old wounds and I’m still struggling to regain composure following it (sounds very Jane Austen, doesn’t it…).
It happened in a very fancy Sydney restaurant and the whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth (no reflection on the food of course). There was something about the experience of sobbing, publicly, at an ostrich skin covered table with 5 overdressed waitstaff anxiously looking on that really ruined fine dining for me.
Very spoilt brat of me I know, but this is my issue with fine dining… I hate the performance aspect of it. I hate being waited on. I hate the constant interruptions, the rigmarole, the pretence of it all. The food is amazing but can one honestly enjoy it with all the palaver going on? It was stressful before I was in tears. It was unbearable afterwards. It was somewhat patronisingly explained to me by a dining companion earlier in the meal that the experience was all about the details. Well, by the end I felt suffocated by the details. I’ve had enough bloody details to last me a lifetime. And furthermore, in this economy, with so many people struggling, isn’t it a bit much to be eating on ostrich skin? And… umm… poor ostriches?
My local dumpling joints can expect to see a whole lot more of me over the next few years.
Right. Stuck-up whiny brat tirade over.
Anyway, I thought it was about time I talked about my ‘hood. The reason I love Darlinghurst is that it is this great mash-up of high and low culture, the rich and poor, old and young. Art students by day, hookers by night. It’s real.
I was getting together this great collection of photos of my ‘hood and then my iphone ate them when I last updated it. Thanks a heap, iphone.
So these photos aren’t those photos, so to speak.
It’s the world’s lamest, shortest photo essay. I feel like a lazy school kid. The photo at the top is simply how I found my mum’s car the other day. It really gave me the giggles. The salt and pepper were so beautifully composed on the roof of her car, and I made up my own story to go with it. Feel free to do the same.
My personal contribution to Darlinghurst of recent times has been walking around with my keyboard under my arm. This makes me feel delightfully Darlinghurst dandy, and I love the friendly nods I get from the local hipsters as I walk along.
Lame-o photo. I get the feeling that the beloved design fascist doesn’t enjoy being ordered to take my photo.
For the record, I’m not just carrying around my keyboard because it makes me feel cool. That is just a bonus. I’m in a band at the moment, which is pretty ludicrous because I haven’t played the keyboard in 15 years. I’m not sure I’m making a very worthy contribution, but it’s certainly good fun. Which leads me to my final photo, which was photographed in our rehearsal space, which is a catholic school.
Yep. That’s a condom. I’m not sure the pope would approve. Not very catholic, but definitely very Darlinghurst.