I’m having unnatural feelings towards a piece of plastic.

Yesterday I went to change my licence from Queensland to New South Wales. It sounds like a mildly irritating visit to the Department of Transport, but really it’s like denouncing your religion in order to join a cult. This simple administrative task is the equivalent to shaving my head, burning my clothes and pulling on hessian underwear.

I didn’t think that moving states would be such a punch in the guts. On my first visit, I remember thinking that if there was some kind of impending natural disaster in which all humanity was doomed, I would hope into my noble Camry and speed towards the boarder. I wouldn’t be having pre-marital intercourse on the roof of a school building or eating seven different types of pie while setting off fireworks, I would be encased in a slightly dented metallic blue capsule all by myself, but I would be happy, because I would be in my home state. Like a seagull flying out to the ocean, I would go out to that sunny wilderness to die.

I know I’m generally quite a morbid person (I get a real kick out of checking the funeral notices – and that’s not just because I once saw an actual Theresa Green AND a Frank Grimes, although it helps), but this is pretty extreme. It might have something to do with the licence plates. As much as I hate the bogan-esque “8 in a Row” slogan plates, they sure are comforting. “The Sunshine State” reminds me that paradise is home, and “The Smart State” makes me glow with misplaced pride of my supposed intellect. More importantly, they just make aesthetic sense. Maroon or green text with a white background complements any vehicle. But the bright yellow plate with black text instantly turns a sweet ride into a crapwagon. If adorned by such grotesque physical notifications of registration, my beloved Nancy (who also goes by “The Chariot” and “that big family car parked askew AND 20 metres away from the kerb”) would go from a fine automobile to straight-up seedy. While I was driving, I ended up behind a fellow Queensland plate and happily fluctuated from 100 to 85 kilometres an hour just to feel like I was back home again. I’d only been in the state for an hour.

After being in this patch of land longer than a mere 60 minutes, more things have rubbed me the wrong way. For one, the newsreaders are different. The slick guy on the 7.30 Report is now a woman – and while I’m all for sisters doing it for themselves (both the movement and the hit track), I grew accustomed to the fellow’s sweeping side part. The Nine Network is now called NBN, which feels like a copyright violation. Channel 10 put Mike effing Munro behind a news desk for the sake of these people. Those twinkling eyes belong on a set with a grossly over-sized book, not delivering glum bulletins about robberies. The lottery signage is also very disappointing. Two colours in the place of an actual rainbow is severely underwhelming. And the police officers don’t seem like they’d be as friendly. They don’t seem like the type of guys who would make inappropriate jokes while you’re trying to blow into the breath tester or give you a ride home from the local show in the back of the patrol vehicle because you’re too drunk and cold to walk. I have yet to actually have a conversation with a police officer (touch wood), but that’s not the point. This place is unpleasantly foreign. Sure, the supermarkets here may have bottle shops attached to them, but that kind of thrilling convenience just doesn’t make up for familiarity.

So when I was sitting in line at the Department of Something To Do With Roads Communicated In A More Annoying Way, I was quite unimpressed – and not just by the guy behind the counter who was wearing P.E teacher sunglasses on his head at 4 in the afternoon (he’d obviously been wearing them all day, despite the fact that he doesn’t need to be shielded from the sun at his 9-5 desk job). At the time, I was pretty crank that I had to walk to the bank, notify them of my change of address and get them to print out a statement with said address to present to the licence bestowing lady, and was even more grumpy when I was told that information from Queensland was needed before my licence could be granted.

But in hindsight, I am glad that I have one last weekend with that yellow plastic rectangle affirming my affiliation with a superior patch of land. It’s going to be an emotional 48 hours.