Glad to be a westie

There are lots of reasons I'm glad I live in Sydney's Inner West. But today I have an extra reason, thanks to the online celebration of all things good and newsy in my area, Inner West Live. This weekend, they published an author interview with lil' ole me. You can read it here.(And if you do read it, can you leave a comment on the page to show them some support? It's so wonderful when media support their local artists, we should give some props back!)

Why else do I love living in the Inner West? Well, aside from the lovely and supportive media, there's the food, which is abundant, incredibly diverse, and cheap. There's the stunning and ever-changing street art, which I've blogged about before. The lovely old parks that are more tree-filled and less landscaped, designed for the wanderer. The grand old mansions and ornate terraces you can pass on a walk with the dog, row upon row of the splendour of yesteryear.
And there are the people. We've never lived in a friendlier neighbourhood. In Enmore, the streets are filled with hipsters, goths, immigrants, itinerants, senior citizens, students and families. And they're all so friendly. Three cases in point:

  1. On our first day in Enmore, boxes not yet unpacked, we rock up to Le Bake, devour breakfasts, coffees and juices, only to discover they don't take cards and we don't have cash. We want to rush to the bank, but, "Don't worry!" the owners Julie and Edmond say. "You live here. You're family! We know you'll pay one day."
  2. Walking my dog on Cavendish Street, he crouches to do his business (as dogs do), and I pull out a little blue bag and pick his business up. We're out the front of a house, and a woman is in her front yard. She looks like she belongs in Mosman, not Enmore. I'd put her at about 50 years old, immaculately styled blonde hair, silk white pant-suit with a gold woven belt and matching gold jewellery. "Give me that," she says to me, pointing to the blue bag. "I'll put it in my bin, you don't want to be carrying that." I demur but the woman absolutely insists on taking the bag of dog crap from me and putting it in her own rubbish!
  3. The day of our wedding, the family headed out to our front street to execute a bit of a clean-up because, while I'm ever a fan of my neighbourhood, I confess it DOES get pretty filthy. This was also the day of the State election. Neighbours helped out. Some picked up rubbish, others loaned their brooms and gloves, and others who couldn't help out on the day have taken charge of the upkeep ever since.

And finally? Just like Kate and Will we, too, had a fly-over at our wedding ceremony. Because we chose to get married in our secret garden, a heavenly little spot out the back of our house that my mother made lovely and my father brightened by painting the door blue. And right on cue, after our vows (and possibly during them but my concentration was elsewhere), the Boeing 747s roared past. It's entirely possible the passengers witnessed our vows.