Originally published by The Clifton Courier, November 28, 2018

Escaping from the Sydney cesspit sounds like a good thing.

The fact that I went as far as to call it a cesspit suggests I didn’t like it very much. And that’s a fair call to make. I mean, I involuntarily pull a sour face when people mention the place. I sometimes even let out a mildly disgusted noise; the kind of vocalisation you make after stepping on a potato chip that has gone soggy after being dropped in a puddle at a public pool.

So you’d think there would be no negatives involved in leaving the place behind me.

However, you’d be wrong.

I’ve now got to completely reinvent myself, which is going to take some work.

After two years in Sydney, I’d transformed into an over-exaggerated stereotype, typifying all the good things* about being a country Queenslander.

* And, let’s be honest, a couple of the bad things. 

I’d talk up the benefits of cob loaves. I’d say “mate” a little more than necessary. I’d make some reference to a swag, just to let people know that I’m totally comfortable sleeping outdoors like a jolly bloody swagman.

I realise it sounds incredibly wanky but, in my defence, it’s hard not to slip into this role. It’s kind of like being around people from overseas – you just can’t help but play up to the Aussie stereotype.

And that was fine in Sydney, where people generally viewed my Queenslander ways as novel and amusing*.

* And very, very bogan. And perhaps a little brash. And somewhat annoying.

But now I’m back home, that’s just not going to fly.

Everyone eats cob loaves. People here can tell when you’re spreading the “mate” on a little too thick, like a heavy slathering of Vegemite on toast*. And, let’s be honest, most people have slept in a swag in the past fortnight or so, and they’re not bragging about it.

* And that is jarring. I witnessed someone who spreads their Vegemite on so think the toast looks burnt. He doesn’t even use butter, he just goes in dry. It’s actually really quite confronting.

I am no longer that token Queenslander, because everyone in this state is. And the last thing I want to do is ham up my Queenslander ways. When you go too hard on the Queenslander in Queensland – and it’s not Origin time – people can tell pretty quickly that you’re a try-hard dropkick. They’ll be off you faster than you can say “Milton mango”.

Plus, I had cultivated a personality based almost entirely on disliking my surroundings. My hobby was hating Sydney. In my spare time, I disliked Sydney. My favourite sport was Sydney bashing. I haven’t got the hard quantitative data to back me up, but latest estimates show that roughly 67% of my conversations were, in some way, complaining about Sydney.

With more than two thirds of my go-to conversation topics wiped out, I now have to find something else to talk about. My brain has to readjust to be less critical. I have to get used to not hating everything and generally being a misery guts.

And that’s quite a blow.

I mean, negativity is my thing. Positivity is like a pair of brand new restrictive skinny jeans that are too tight around the crotch. I can handle it for a few hours, but as soon as I get home I’m putting on my loose-fitting pessimism pants, which are so thin from being overworn it feels like I’m wearing nothing at all (nothing at all).

Being in a happier place (locationally speaking) requires me to get a whole new metaphorical wardrobe.

It’s also going to mean that I’m going to have to put more effort in my weekly musings. I can no longer bank on the fact that something annoying or outrageous will happen to me in Sydney, providing an endless supply of column fodder for me to rant about. That safety net is gone.

But then, I just spent 570 words whinging about something I’ve been wanting for two years.

This gives me faith that, now I’m not spending an obscene amount on rent, living among literal street rats* or regularly paying $12 for an underwhelming schooner of beer, I’ll still have something to rant about. I’m just going to have to be a bit more creative about it.

* To be fair, I did only see two in my time. 

That, or I’ll just have to start doing more embarrassing things on my weekends to write about.

There is work to be done, yes, but hope is not lost.