I’ve been back in the Sunshine State for a little while now, so the dazzling I’m-finally-home glow has turned into sunburn, flaked and peeled off in tiny figurative flecks of skin. With a dermis layer shed, I can now view the reality with clarity.

And, shockingly, there are some things I look back upon with fondness.

Obviously I miss the friends I left behind and drunkenly try to coerce into starting a new, more affordable, life the Great Southeast, but that’s not the point of this list.

No, this list is about the small things I grew accustomed to in the old Steak and Kidney which, without me realising, apparently burrowed its way into my heart like a parasite.

Brown rice sushi: I mean, look at the name of this list. Of course things were going to get all first-world-problems-y.

I understand that, traditionally, sushi is made with white rice. And I get that people like white rice.

But I like to pretend I’m healthy, so I like to make sure most of the carbs I ingest are brown and have words such as “whole” or “grain” thrown in somewhere.

Aside from the occasional luxurious lump of coconut rice, eat only ever brown rice. And after a few years of eating it, I have grown to love it. That nutty, chewiness is so bloody satisfying to me. It’s the kind of rice that has a bit of go about it; you have to really give it a good grinding with your teeth. So when I have white rice, I feel like I am stuffing my mouth with tiny clouds of diabetes that disappear on my tongue but spend eternity attacking the innards of the temple that is my body.

In Sydney, there are so many wankers like myself that there’s a viable market for brown rice sushi. There were a whole bunch of varieties at the fancy, fancy food court that was below the white-collar cesspool that was my old office building. But even the cheap, basic sushi joints had brown rice options.

I never knew I had it so good, until I was walking around South Bank trying to find a salmon and avo roll that I could feel smug about.

Alas, there were none.

It turns out that brown rice sushi isn’t really a thing here, and it’s devastating.

Getting praise for just turning up at stuff: When you travel interstate for an event, you’re pretty much the guest of honour wherever you’re going. You get a special mention in speeches for having travelled so far. People are bloody thrilled to see you. You automatically take out the most-committed friend award.

In this day and age, where I like to wear pyjamas for most of the day and am past the age when my achievements are classed as “impressive for such a young person”, being lauded for just turning up is the self-esteem boost I needed to stop me from being aware of my own meritocracy.

People treat you like you came all the way from the wilderness of Alaska just to drink wine on a Sunday morning. It’s almost as if you had to scale a mountain, take shelter in a hollowed-out bear carcass and cross an icy rapid to be there. In reality, I got to feel like a boss by going to the Qantas terminal, stare blankly out at the sky and eat luxurious cookies (yes, cookie – I’m not a fan of the very American word replacing the superior Australian term “biscuit”, however, those baked treats fell under the definition of “cookie” due to their size and decadent properties. I only use the word “cookie” in certain contexts. Subway cookies are cookies, but you would never call, say, shortbread or an Anzac bickie a cookie.)

Yes, travelling interstate costs waaaaay more than a trip up the range and it can be quite disruptive to your weekend, but I did enjoy the acclaim for my mere attendance.

Now when I turn up to things, I’m just a regular old guest. I’m no longer the special crockery, but just one of the mismatched dinner plates with a chip in the edge.

It’s not that I’m complaining, but I also kind of am.

The proximity to emotionally-indulgent rocky coastal walks: Sydney has some cracking coastal cliffs you can use as a backdrop if you’re ever in the mood to be moody. If you want to look off into the distance and think deeply about something, a coastal rock face is the place to do it.

You can look out to sea and watch storms brewing, not unlike the dark clouds gathering in your heart. The wild, crashing ocean mirrors the unsettled feeling deep in your soul. The endless horizon is in your sights but beyond your reach, like the love you yearn for.

I mean, looking out at the mud flats of Nudgee is probably a more fitting metaphor for your stanky, stagnant and underwhelming love life. But when you’re searching your soul for answers, you want the possibility of interpreting a breeching whale or a leaping dolphin as a sign to go for it; that everything’s going to be ok.

No matter how you try to spin it, a muddied empty bait bag blowing across the silty sand just doesn’t have the same uplifting qualities.