Now, I live on a hill in the Sydney suburb of Coogee. I'm sitting in my office as I write, looking out at the wedge of ocean visible between my neighbour's red-tiled roof and an annoyingly magniloquent Magnolia. I'm very keen to increase the size of that ocean wedge, but the branches I would need to cut down contain a beautiful nest, and - although I haven't seen anyone occupying it for a whole year now - I find the ethical arithmetic of trading a chunk of tree and a beautiful nest for a few more inches of blue complex enough to paralyse me. Arboreally.
This, by the way, is how I write when I have a one-hour deadline; rather like a wanker.
So, Sydney. It's pretty sweet, eh. It's the end of May now and although it's chilly outside, the water temperature hasn't dropped too far yet, so we can still pop down and swim across the bay if we're feeling ballsy. At this time of year there are whales whaling their way along the coast, and every now and again a blowhole-spray interrupts my wedge of blue, so I rush to my scope and squint through the sight to see if I can get a closer look, but they've always dived by the time I get the focus right. Stupid bloody whales.
Next year it will be two decades since Sarah and I got married, and this is the sixth house we've lived in, not counting countless Airbnbs. Six houses in 20 years isn't too weird, but it's perhaps unusual that they have been in five major cities. Perth, Melbourne, London, Los Angeles and now Sydney. We've loved them all, and have come to the not-particularly profound conclusion that one's experience of a place is defined much more by the people you meet and the things that happen than weather or town-planning or opening hours.