SUBURBAN LIFE -- IT'S FOR THE BIRDS
Dec 9th 2005
By Greg Tourelle of NZPA
Sydney, Dec 9 NZPA - The trouble with inner-city apartment living is you don't get to feel the grass between your toes. Nature is missed.
So we have shifted.
To be truthful, that's not the real reason. The office has shifted, from central Sydney to the city's west, so that, and a need for household fiscal rectitude, has provoked a move to the suburbs.
We are just 15km out from central Sydney, but it seems light years away from the helter-skelter hustle and bustle of the CBD.
Concord West is quiet. If you listen closely, you can hear the light hum of the city in the background, but it is millions of decibels lower than that in vehicle-clogged Sydney.
Instead of a medium tower apartment, we are living in a semi-detached bungalow in Concord West. It's more notable for its length rather than width and there is a patch of lawn out the back, with almost enough space between house and back fence to swing a golf club.
Grass. I've hardly seen it in the last three years, give or take the occasional visit to Royal Randwick and Flemington and a trip back to the lush paddocks of Southland.
The Concordites take their grass seriously. Bowls club greenkeepers would be impressed with the immaculate lawns.
The suburb is tree deep. When we arrived a month ago the jacarandas were in full bloom, a spectacular sight. They have since shed their flowers, turning the streets into purple carpets.
I have to confess to getting the speed wobbles in trying to slow down to the suburban pace.
There's been a dramatic change in alarm clock too.
I don't miss being woken by sirens at all hours of the night and early morning -- and ditch-diggers operated by insomniacs.
Instead, we are woken by the birds.
It should be a joy to be roused by a chorus from nature. A shame then that my first thought on morning one was "shotgun".
Perhaps I've been too long in the company of enthusiastic duckshooters, though forensic psychiatrists may think a deeper problem is at play.
But the noise is not so much a chorus as a drunken orchestra. It's a cacophony of mayhem.
Some of the birds, like the rainbow lorikeet, look spectacular. Others, like the mynahs and currawongs, are more menacing.
But mix them in with starlings, rosellas and doves and there is a squawking, chirping, flapping, cooing crescendo when one should be sleeping soundly.
Sometimes it's warfare out there. The currawongs (native magpies) and mynahs are aggressive and not just too each other.
Currawong dive-bombing raids on humans are not uncommon, resulting in people furtively scuttling along the footpaths with their arms raised, covering their heads.
It has occurred to me that if birdflu hits Australia, we're prime targets.
The mere thought of that and the continual squawking is enough to drive one to the pub.
The Concord West pub has two great advantages. Beer and an absence of loud music. It also has a TAB which comes in handy.
In the next suburb, Rhodes, where the office is situated, there is no pub or TAB. This may have been a pointed consideration in my employers' decision to move here. But I'm told a pub is being built. I'm keeping my reaction to that hidden from the boss.
Back at Concord, I was settling into a chair and a Carlton Draught in the back bar, when I noticed a framed photograph on the wall that made the beer splutter out again.
It is simply titled The Tackle.
Yes, it's the one of George Gregan tackling Jeff Wilson in the 1994 Bledisloe Cup rugby test, jolting the ball out of the All Black winger's hands and saving the match for Australia.
I complained to the barman, but he said he was a Kiwi. "I have to look at it every day," he mourned.
It turns out it is the pub of the family of Wallaby prop Bill Young and his family.
I drink in the front bar now and comfort myself that all the Wallabies have to cherish at the moment are memories.
On the walk back home it is impossible to miss on our corner the electrically lighted reindeer in a neighbour's backyard. Down the road, on someone's perfect lawn, is a large blow-up Santa Claus.
Ah, life in the suburbs. Little wonder the birds are squawking.
Credit:NZPA
By Greg Tourelle of NZPA
Sydney, Dec 9 NZPA - The trouble with inner-city apartment living is you don't get to feel the grass between your toes. Nature is missed.
So we have shifted.
To be truthful, that's not the real reason. The office has shifted, from central Sydney to the city's west, so that, and a need for household fiscal rectitude, has provoked a move to the suburbs.
We are just 15km out from central Sydney, but it seems light years away from the helter-skelter hustle and bustle of the CBD.
Concord West is quiet. If you listen closely, you can hear the light hum of the city in the background, but it is millions of decibels lower than that in vehicle-clogged Sydney.
Instead of a medium tower apartment, we are living in a semi-detached bungalow in Concord West. It's more notable for its length rather than width and there is a patch of lawn out the back, with almost enough space between house and back fence to swing a golf club.
Grass. I've hardly seen it in the last three years, give or take the occasional visit to Royal Randwick and Flemington and a trip back to the lush paddocks of Southland.
The Concordites take their grass seriously. Bowls club greenkeepers would be impressed with the immaculate lawns.
The suburb is tree deep. When we arrived a month ago the jacarandas were in full bloom, a spectacular sight. They have since shed their flowers, turning the streets into purple carpets.
I have to confess to getting the speed wobbles in trying to slow down to the suburban pace.
There's been a dramatic change in alarm clock too.
I don't miss being woken by sirens at all hours of the night and early morning -- and ditch-diggers operated by insomniacs.
Instead, we are woken by the birds.
It should be a joy to be roused by a chorus from nature. A shame then that my first thought on morning one was "shotgun".
Perhaps I've been too long in the company of enthusiastic duckshooters, though forensic psychiatrists may think a deeper problem is at play.
But the noise is not so much a chorus as a drunken orchestra. It's a cacophony of mayhem.
Some of the birds, like the rainbow lorikeet, look spectacular. Others, like the mynahs and currawongs, are more menacing.
But mix them in with starlings, rosellas and doves and there is a squawking, chirping, flapping, cooing crescendo when one should be sleeping soundly.
Sometimes it's warfare out there. The currawongs (native magpies) and mynahs are aggressive and not just too each other.
Currawong dive-bombing raids on humans are not uncommon, resulting in people furtively scuttling along the footpaths with their arms raised, covering their heads.
It has occurred to me that if birdflu hits Australia, we're prime targets.
The mere thought of that and the continual squawking is enough to drive one to the pub.
The Concord West pub has two great advantages. Beer and an absence of loud music. It also has a TAB which comes in handy.
In the next suburb, Rhodes, where the office is situated, there is no pub or TAB. This may have been a pointed consideration in my employers' decision to move here. But I'm told a pub is being built. I'm keeping my reaction to that hidden from the boss.
Back at Concord, I was settling into a chair and a Carlton Draught in the back bar, when I noticed a framed photograph on the wall that made the beer splutter out again.
It is simply titled The Tackle.
Yes, it's the one of George Gregan tackling Jeff Wilson in the 1994 Bledisloe Cup rugby test, jolting the ball out of the All Black winger's hands and saving the match for Australia.
I complained to the barman, but he said he was a Kiwi. "I have to look at it every day," he mourned.
It turns out it is the pub of the family of Wallaby prop Bill Young and his family.
I drink in the front bar now and comfort myself that all the Wallabies have to cherish at the moment are memories.
On the walk back home it is impossible to miss on our corner the electrically lighted reindeer in a neighbour's backyard. Down the road, on someone's perfect lawn, is a large blow-up Santa Claus.
Ah, life in the suburbs. Little wonder the birds are squawking.
Credit:NZPA
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