Dream the Impossible Dream

No, I’m not talking about West Ham miraculously avoiding relegation this season (but GET IN THERE YOU IRONS! all the same). What I’m talking about is the favourite subject of every good Sydney-sider – real estate.

It’s insidious I tell you. Like most newcomers I was disgusted by it at first. But over time, I softened and acquired a detached, historian’s interest in residential architecture. Gradually I developed an appreciation of Art Deco apartment blocks and dark-brick Californian bungalows. And now, as that "appreciation" blooms into an obsession, the time has come to admit I have a problem.

During my morning train ride I stare wistfully out the window at the little allotments of homeowning bliss. Near Erskineville I peep into the back courtyards of the semis. In one there's a weathered table with three chairs, a medley of potted cacti and an ashtray. I imagine the people playing cards the night before, lingering over a mid-range Shiraz Viognier, smoking rollies. I imagine myself there too.



Near Croyden the bungalows begin, always with a frangipani out the front. Out the back they have gardens, large enough for a swing set or a respectable veggie patch. And as I ogle over the fences I can see myself plucking ripe tomatoes off the vines, or digging carrots out of the cool earth – my cool earth. At the end of the street a similar backyard is overgrown with weeds and I frown at it the way you might at a neighbour who lowers the value of the surrounding houses by neglecting basic maintenance. When was the last time they painted?



And then when the view opens up near Homebush, my breath catches as I peer across the landscape. Between the bushy treetops, solid and ordinary orange-tiled roofs shelter solid, ordinary lives - people on time for work and soccer practice. This is the landscape that I travelled halfway across the world to get away from, that I hated, and now, perhaps, could love.



But is this love? I thought love was wholesome and good, whereas this feels consumptive, depraved. It's like having fantasies about that person you never could … never would … I catch myself peeping into the real estate agent's window, looking at the prices. Next door is the newsagent and I see Lotto has another jackpot this week. The red sign calls to me.

Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. You’re driving me crazy.