Yes. I could live in Perth.
If the apocolypse was looming / and or I just been told I had six months to live. Or if the people whose house we’re staying in wanted to maybe say give us their house to live in. Because it is rather stupendously lovely.
Perth reminds me of that scene in Beaches where the dark haired woman who isn’t Bette Middler is dying. I keep expecting to hear John singing that I’m his hero and everything he wishes he could be (I’ll keep waiting on that). It is beautiful and peaceful and sedate. It’s the kind of place where you could sit on a veranda in the sunshine and listen to the Kookaburras all day and not do anything . And be perfectly, serenely happy. If I had to wait for death to claim me I would do it here. For sure.
Here are my other fascinating observations on Perth:
- You could play What’s the time Mr. Wolf on the freeway blindfolded and not get hit by a car.
- You get called a lot of things. Like Champ, darling, sweetheart, love, beauty, you beauty, darling and mate. It’s quite nice.
- It is exceedingly expensive. I’m sure it wasn’t this expensive when I was 18 because I managed to enjoy myself quite a lot back then (ahhh Nimbin. Mr. Morgan if you happen to be reading, remember that?) But now it is the equivalent of eight quid for the cheapest bottle of wine and five quid for a bottle of Garnier Fructis. And I am not resorting to drinking shampoo as a cheaper alternative – that’s what meths are for.
- Fashion seems to have entered a strange vortex here. Ripped jeans, mullets, sequinned tops, singlet vests over tight t-shirts, knee high stiletto boots with silver buckles (maybe she was Russian though – I couldn’t tell) everywhere I look. But if the apocolypse was looming I might not care about what I was wearing. Maybe. Though probably that is not true.
- There are drive through liquor stores here called bottle shops. I mean why have we not thought of that in Europe?
So goodbye Perth, see you again, I hope. Or not, as the case may be.