I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with Sydney, but deprived of its pleasures in lockdown, I have come to appreciate the city’s immoral reputation
As we drag our sorry, miserable existences through week 11 of lockdown, I am plagued by intense cravings to be really, really bad in Sydney.
Not bad as in attend a superspreader anti-lockdown protest. Specifically, I want to jump in a time travel machine to 2002 and dance till dawn at a Mad Racket party at Marrickville Bowling Club. (Oh merciful Lord, send me back to one such glorious night. At the end of it I swear on my grandmother’s grave to hop back into the time machine and dutifully serve out the rest of this lockdown sentence.)
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