Originally published in The Clifton Courier August 30, 2017

I think living away from the country is making me more country than living in the country ever could.

Confused? Yes, me too.

When I was in Armidale, I worked with a bunch of Sydney-siders whose first real taste of “country living” was in a town with a Kmart and a KFC. I mean, wear a puffy vest and your shiny RMs if you want, but if you’re living somewhere you can get drive-thru bacon and egg muffins for a hungover breakfast, you’re not exactly living in the sticks.

I found myself enjoying how stunned my co-workers were when I told them we didn’t have a McDonald’s in town. They just couldn’t get their heads around the fact that “going to Maccas for breakfast after a big night out” meant grabbing a plate and letting my Dad – who, like Cher or Madonna, is so iconic that he goes by one and one name only – load you up with bacon, eggs and that garlicy-oniony breakfast veggie slop he’s famous for after you woke up in a swag somewhere. Macca’s was definitely a thing, it just wasn’t drive-thru; you had to dine in and have a chat.

My co-workers thought of my Clifton life as a fantasy, like the town in Gilmore Girls mixed with McLeod’s Daughters and Crocodile Dundee. And I can’t say I didn’t play up to that.

I found myself morphing into this loud-mouthed, charmingly-bogan country mouse after spending considerable hours as a teen lamenting my rural roots.

I would talk about sleeping in a swag out in the open as they’d shriek about bugs. I’d talk about the bottle tree filled with the cement. I’d tell them the unnecessarily long story about how my belt with the pony buckle was made for me by the bloke who used to be my swimming coach and how I traded him and his wife – the woman who taught me how to type – a batch of gingerbread for the leather.

The small-town label had become a badge of honour, and now that I’m living in the biggest smoke in Australia, I like to keep that badge nice and shiny. I’ve fully embraced my point of difference from the Sydney masses, and flaunt it whenever possible. It’s like I needed to go full city to realise just how much of a country girl I actually am.

The other day I called my bank to ask them to redirect my replacement card to a Sydney branch. Because as much as I’d like to be able to pop into Clifton to pick up my card, it would be kind of tricky to explain my boss why I was away for six hours when I’d told him I was, “just ducking out to the bank quickly”.

I made it clear I was new to Sydney, I used the word “mate” and, when he put me on hold to call the Clifton branch, I told him to “say his to Jenny for me” just to really drive the message home that I was a fair dinkum, small town girl.

I don’t know why it is, but I find myself doing this all the time now. Whether it’s being an overly polite, talkative customer or scoffing at the audacity of the trendy market in my neighbourhood selling bunches of cotton to hipsters for $20 a piece, I get a kick out of playing the country mouse.

I’m not sure if I’m playing up to the country stereotype or just being my authentic self. And I don’t know if it’s because I’m homesick, or if I’m taking the p— out of myself and my town. Perhaps it’s a little bit of everything.

But it feels nice and it usually results in excellent customer service so I guess I’ll keep it up.

But if I start saying “g’day” too much, maybe tell me to pull my head in.

Also, in case old mate didn’t pass on my regards, can someone please tell Jenny I said hello?

* Apparently Jen got the message. A few times.