From the wilds of Melbourne alleyways and cafe bars, stinking of roll your own cigarettes and Coopers Pale I crawled onto the plane with my glo-mesh purse and 100% black skinny leg, big bad ass sunnies and hit the runway in the bush.
All I heard were birds. And they were fucking loud.
There were horse floats, tents and hours upon hours to be spent in cars. There were a million miles of dead grass paddocks and llamas.
In the middle of it all was the television station. A boxy grey thing with a hub of smoke laden techies gathered on the balcony. Soaking in the bland mediocrity.
I stared at it in the glaring heat and muttered to myself, surely the city wasn’t that bad?
Really. I mean, c’mon. Seriously.