It's been a solid two years since I was in Sydney, and I don't have fond memories of the place. It cost me two thousand (2000) dollars and two years worth of public transport. And all because some weasely little judge had a grudge against Queenslanders (and drink drivers too it would appear).
Then five (5) months before that I was exiled from Sydney licking my wounds. I staggered away with my tail between my legs, nursing a shattered collar bone, a broken heart and high as a kite on hillbilly heroin.
But this weekend I have to venture back to that wretched city to meet and greet The Missus' extended family. Which is no problem. I've never had any qualms about meeting the family.
The real fear comes from Sydney, diving head first back into the belly of the beast. If all goes well, I'll return penniless and missing a thumb. However, if things go poorly, and Sydney finally finishes the job, I won't return. Keep a sharp eye on news reports coming out of Sydney, because one day, they may find pieces of me washing up on the steps of the Sydney Opera House.
Or maybe I'm just overreacting a tad.
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