When we moved here,Grandma couldn’t understand why my parents wouldn’t buy somewhere nice,like Glen Waverley.
Now,when I visit suburbs with cachet,I leave feeling that being burdened with that much cultural capital looks exhausting.
These days,you can look out over a valley of curved metal for the best industrial sunset view in Melbourne.
My neighbourhood is considered one of the posher western suburbs – but an element of the underworld makes it an interesting proposition.
My suburb has witnessed school closures and division over elevating the train station. It’s now united but conscious of over-development and a nearby shopping centre’s sprawl.
In some suburbs,you’d find irritated locals fighting tooth and nail to have this monstrosity removed. In my suburb,many fought to have it heritage listed.
When Peter Dutton takes aim at “woke inner-city elites”,he means people in my suburb,where all children (or wokelings) are fluent in Welcome To Country.
Our little community sits at the point where concrete suburbia meets bushland. And like all good frontier communities,we make our own rules.
With a “pub on every corner” during the gold rush,my neighbourhood is now a source of amusement for suburban workmates.
My suburb’s luminaries were regularly seen picking up their milk supplies in their Rolls-Royces,while locals told the time by spotting a tycoon in his private helicopter.
My suburb’s secret sauce is its solidity. What the younger me saw as boring and bland,I now recognise as reassuring,comfortable and privileged.