This time last week we had a rather debauched night out in Kings Cross to celebrate this year’s Young Australian Journalist of the Year winners. It’s such a fabled part of Sydney and yet one I’ve never really got to know too well. It’s a place where even a weeknight feels sleazy, not dangerous so much as grotty. But all the lights and characters make for great pictures… except perhaps for the paparazzi shots I ended up with of a homeless dude. He just wanted to pose…

One week on, and what a contrast. Three consecutive nights of yoga take their toll on the unflexible body, so my yoga buddy and I restored our equilibrium with a late Mexican dinner and a few beers.


Since my days in Sydney are now numbered, there are suddenly all these things I want, nay, need to do one last time in case I don’t come back. My housemate and I are formulating a list of last hurrahs to have – meat tray raffles, bowls clubs, greyhound racing, etc – let’s face it, the places on it almost all serve beer. So it’s good to tick the Cross off that list…

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