Orange, March 2016


A few weeks ago I planned a few days in Orange at the farm, with the idea of catching up in some much needed sleep. Then we decided to move, so instead I decided to spend the time at the farm writing a job application.

It’s almost a shame, the weather has been incredible, perfect for sitting outdoors with a book (and some bourbon).

I did manage to spend some time wandering around with my Leica.

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Eating Peaches.

Yesterday I resigned from my job.

I moved to Sydney in March 2006 to be with my then-boyfriend. It was a horrible two-stage move, where all our stuff was in storage in Bathurst for a few months and then we lugged it all the way to Sydney on the back of trailers with the help of my parents, if I remember correctly. I was armed with nothing but an ambiguous arts degree and the sense that the move was right because leaving the Central West for Sydney was a thing that people my age did.

Like generation after generation of our townsfolk before us, we migrated towards the Inner West. We lived in Marrickville, on the cusp of the then more desirable Newtown. We rented a series of fairly dank, incredibly hot, cockroach-infested apartments over the next few years.

Sydney wasn’t fun, it was sweaty and expensive.

I went on to live alone for the first time in a sunny space, before moving into a share-house in Newtown, where I was when I met B and we deciding to throw our lot in together and shift to the suburbs, where we currently pay too much rent for a house on an artery road to the M5.

I’ve never liked Sydney. I’ve actively hated Sydney. It’s too humid, too expensive, too crowded, too difficult to get anywhere. Every summer since I moved here, I have promised myself it would be the last, and for the time being, it is.

I want to really dig my teeth into my psychology study, so one evening recently B and I sat down and tried to work out how that could happen. B doesn’t mind Sydney and his career has really blossomed here, so his ideal scenario would be staying. Mine was moving back to Bathurst, one of my favourite cities, to live close to my uni and indulge in starry nights and a relaxed pace.

In typical me fashion (the me who didn’t realise you don’t need to save up for an entire holiday and only then book it, which is why I didn’t travel to America until my late-20s), we had a conversation that went a little like this:

Me: “If we had a time machine, I could go back in time and study and then go forward in time and meet back up with you.”

B: “There’s another way.”

Me: “You’re right. First I should research if someone has created a time machine and what it costs.”

B: “No, it’s simpler than that.”

Me: “… I never study? You quit your job and I quit my job and we lose everything and I still don’t study?”

B: “Nope. Fairly simple. Does not end in time travel or disaster.”

Me: “Does not end in disaster? Everything can end in disaster! I live every day knowing disaster could strike at any moment and ruin everything!”

B: “Nope.”

We decided to do both. Over the next little while, we’ll pack up our house and put it into storage (oh, the dreaded two-stage move). I’m going to stay with my parents and B will visit on weekends. Once I have a job, we’ll find a house to rent in Bathurst and I’ll live there full-time, B part-time. When he’s not there, I’ll study. On the weekends we’ll do what we haven’t done in a long time: Relax.

Both of us are feeling very calm for a huge decision made only a few days ago. Well, B is very calm, I have become incredibly invested in the Alicia Florrick/Will Gardner love affair and I doubt my heart will ever recover. I’ve already stockpiled tissues in preparation.


Out With The Old, In With The New.

B and I have been discussing simplifying our home recently.

Our home. As an aside, I would suggest never living in a house on an artery road. You’ll get about as much sleep as you would just pitching tent on the road. Also, don’t live in a house where someone’s done their own wiring at some point. Don’t do that. Don’t try and budge a stuck window with a hammer either.

B and I are both pack rats and the circumstances of our last move meant we didn’t really think things through and have ended up with far more stuff than we need and not necessarily the stuff we would like to own. Then we got more stuff and put it on stuff until there was no space for the other stuff we bought, so storage stuff seemed the solution.

My mood is affected by my surroundings quite dramatically and I find our current setup distracting and a bit suffocating.

A few nights ago, with the aid of the latest IKEA catalogue and some sticky notes, I showed B how I would do things next time around.


There are two of us. Our current dining room table seats six, and while the idea of dinner parties and a feast-laden table is lovely, we’ve never gotten around to organising one and the extra space has become a dumping ground for shopping and receipts and dog leads and hygiene and Wuz’s bowl and most of the time Wuz.

I want to go small, with the option to extend. I love the INGATORP table,

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I really like dark wood and IKEA usually set it up with the ÄLMSTA chairs, which makes for a very eye-catching set.

We also have three sets of dinnerware in various shades of grey, which I like to mix and match, which I can see working with the table.

Complete wankery aside, practically, having just the centre leg on the table would work well in preventing the scratch marks of a certain short dog who uses the corner legs of our current table to hold herself up when looking for cat food and in her excitement, has managed to shred almost every leg.


Currently we have three bookcases, two lounges, three guitars, an amp and a TV all stuffed in one room.

The lounges are much loved by the pets, but neither one is particularly endearing to humans. One is slightly lighter this week, after a certain beagle dug a hole in a certain foam cushion while its cover was being washed after a certain cat threw up on it.

Next house, I don’t want a lounge, I want two armchairs instead (sorry imaginary guests). Obviously next house will have also have wooden floorboards, and all I want in the room is a single bookcase, the TV, and the armchairs.

Initially I was drawn to the STORSELE chairs, which with a cushion I think could be quite comfortable, but maybe not for long periods of time.


So with comfort and the pursuit of reading (and all seasons of The Good Wife) in mind, how could I go past a wing-backed armchair? I’m not sure what colour I prefer. Initial instinct tells me grey, but I always choose the darker colours, so maybe I would like some yellow amongst it? I’d also like a rug to put under the chairs, both to protect the hypothetical floorboards and to make it all look cozy. I don’t mind the GÅSER, though B points out that a certain feline seems to manically shed on anything soft and comfortable.

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As well as floorboards, our next house is obviously going to have a porch, which I intent to relax on. Relaxing! What a novel concept!

We have a porch at our current house. It’s called the M5.

I think I lost B a bit when I got to the porch part of my plan for our imaginary house, he certainly looked at me like I’d had some sort of regrettable brain transgression. My plan is to have Friday afternoon, end of the working week G&Ts on our porch and I am going to serve them in teawear. When I said this, B’s face suggested I’ll be drinking alone a lot.

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(clockwise from top left: Moroccan Tealeidoscope Green Teapot / Mr Fish Blue Cup & Saucer / Moroccan Tealeidoscope Tall Pale Aqua Cup & Saucer / Oriental Crane Blue Origami Cup & Saucer)

So far all of this is hypothetical, but I have a good feeling about this.