“Of course you must consider,” ruminates Samantha, “that the clothes in Australia are shit. I mean,” she continues warmly, “you will have to learn to live without Topshop and Vivienne Westwood. You’ll stomp about like the style Queen of the Eastern Suburbs for a while. Then you’ll step down a notch or two. Finally you’ll just sink into being a slob like the rest of us.”
It’s true that I have worn nothing but thongs on my feet ever since I arrived in Sydney. Samantha and I stand silently on her sun-bathed balcony gazing out at a bushy parkland of Eucalypts, Banksia and Casurina trees across the narrow street. As I ponder the sartorial abyss that looms before me, a vibrant red and yellow flash tumbles into a nearby tree. It’s an Eastern Rosella. The bird settles, squawks loudly and jumps up and down with furious abandon shaking the slender branches.
I think I will manage.