Some Ice Cubes Would Be Ideal

In an attempt to glorify an Australian winter through comparison, I was dredging up the memory of the oppressive humidity which nearly pinned me down and choked me beyond consciousness in an aisle of the Glebe Markets last month. I am of the opinion that while fashion is heavily influenced by politics and the prevailing cultural zeitgeist, the wearing of said fashions is moreso directly controlled by Nature and her seemingly endless mood swings. It is extremely difficult to flip through flimsy racks of stained 90's cycling pants and loud, padded swimwear in search of a glorious piece which is inevitably marked 600% above the price it was procured for in either stifling heat or an avalanche of rain - which were the environments under which I experienced the Glebe Markets on both occasions I've been there. It is equally unheard of to wear a miniskirt and Repettos during a 4-hour Western equivalent of a Monsoon, or high-waist jeans with piles of necklaces in an outdoor sauna - unless, ofcourse, you neglected to consider weather possibilities, and you are Eunice. In my disgruntled state, however, I spotted two particularly stylish (and might I gush unself-consciously trendy) personalities, who were clearly fixtures on the "Glebe Markets scene" and, for me, were the epitome of Australian fashion. Moreover, the uniform would appear to transcend any temperamental Sydney weather condition with enviable panache, if you'll excuse how lame I am for mentioning it.

Effectively Returned, Albeit Somewhat Displaced.

Freshly adorned with several inches of extra hair and a full cup size larger in the chest (the former belonging to an anonymous donor and fixed to my crown by a muscular transvestite, the latter quite unexpected and entirely authentic, just to reassure you), I return from my month-long vacation to The Land Of Smiles And Inexpensive Contraband Accessories, Thailand. I return, ofcourse, to a sparse guest room next to my mother's kitchen (to quote The Simpson's Principal Skinner, "My mother lives with me."), in a city cold and unforgivably alienating, of which I've often previously visited but have only inhabited for a mere two months before toting an empty suitcase to the smoggy climate and grimy streets of South-East Asia.

I return, now, with enviable memories and inexpressibly broadened vision. But like an unmedicated bipolar patient, with my felicity and excess comes, lurking in the juices of insufficiently heated aeroplane food, gloom, disenchantment and a dazzlingly vacant bank account. I've become trapped between the stark plotted streets and their towering, glassy office buildings, within layers of tenement walls, a prison of brick, cement and framed unrealities, under swathes of starched cotton, knitted wool and goose-bumped skin. A utilities bill lies stiff and despised on the kitchen table, a customs officer probes a gloved hand into the lining of my suitcase, a bus driver barks an answer in perfect unsmiling English. As I smother the embers of my cigarette beneath the glare of a disapproving waiter and pay for a mind-bogglingly overpriced coffee, I try to convince myself that this is my home. Its absurdities and charms have not taken root in my life, yet, and its image is vague and blurry in the unfinished painting of my future, but I have given myself no other choice but to inhale its breath and follow its undulations, at times hesitant but always steadfast amid the miasma of exorbitant price tags and no-smoking signs.