After tearing out of the AFTRS studio after my final on-air shift of Home and Living I was on a ridiculous adrenaline high.
I left a few misty eyes behind me and coupled with the euphoria I was feeling was pretty indicative of the entire year.
It sounds so clichéd but it was one of the best and one of the worst years of my life and this was essentially the final day.
It’s a good thing that I had no time between the demanding mistress that was Next FM and the unknown quantity of the Wild West, otherwise I would’ve kept myself up at night wondering what it would be like.
I pried myself away from the airport shops after the impulse buying of shoes that are highly inappropriate for my destination, got on the plane and I realised it was the first time I’d stopped in weeks. So I really settled into my seat with my newspaper, glossy magazines and my shitty airline blanket. BLISS.
Stopping over at Adelaide airport made me aware I wasn’t in Sydney anymore. As the pilot reminded us to turn our watches back as Adelaide is 30 minutes behind a real “Aussie” bloke yells out from the back “it’s a fair bit more than half an hour behind mate”. In the terminal, the abundance of press-studded trackie-dacks and tatts confirmed his sentiments.
The descent into Kalgoorlie (the last time I’m officially allowed to use the full name is now, before touching the ground) is almost as breathtaking as the one into Sydney on a fine day. The earth is red as far the eye can see and the pits and dams of the goldmining industry are like acne scars on the adolescent WA soil.
After settling into my room (bigger than some of the studios I have been looking at in Sydney) I went for a walk around town. Mental note one: Kal hasn’t discovered Sunday trading yet. Not even Coles and Woolies were open and I forgot to bring toothpaste. (shudder)
The only places open on a Sunday night were the inhabitants of Hay St. If you know anything about Kal, you’ll have heard of this famous street. The world’s oldest profession is alive and kicking in Kal and hugely celebrated. All of the pubs had signs for “Skimpies of the week” which I thought may have been a brand of beer but it turns out, a Skimpy is a topless waitress. Got to keep those miners occupied eh?
I love how they take "groups by arrangement" Willy Mason would be totally into that.
So I ate Red Rooster, felt gross and then slept for 8 hours. Made resolve to go for a run in the morning to compensate.
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