My beautiful Sydney

There's nothing like camping in the great outdoors: the fresh air, the fauna, the flora, the 20 million mozzie bites on your body that you spend half the night scratching.

I often hear country people say that they can't wait to get out of the city and back to the country when they come for a visit. I know what they mean. I spent a lot of time around Byron Bay in far northern NSW in my early 30s and whenever I ventured back to the big smoke I would get heart palpitations, sweaty palms and a nervous twitch in my right eye. Okay, the twitch is a slight exaggeration, but you get my drift. The sudden rush of people, each busy with a place to be, and the high energy buzz would hit me like a bad trip, the initial rush so powerful, my body and mind would be thrown in disarray in an attempt to keep up with the intensity. 

Yet, once I've lingered for a while, the rhythm of the city becomes addictive. I grow accustomed to her groove and, like everyone else, become a busy blur as each moment calls for something to do, something to be done. 

Not that country people aren't also busy...the difference is, when I'm in the country and sit down to catch my breath, the sights and sounds of nature soothe me, embrace me in the moment. And the black blanket that wraps me up at night is a sweet, sweet treat. I'm a baby cradled in the arms of Mother Nature, an unborn baby safe and settled in her mother's womb. 

In the city, no matter how hard I try to block the world out at night, light from the street lamps always manages to splinter its way through the blinds, and I often lie awake and watch the cars' passing headlights wash over the walls. The city never sleeps and sometimes neither do I.

Yet, like my close family and friends, I still love her, despite her imperfections, of which there are a few. Take the night life, for example. The city may never sleep, but neither does she cater for older 30-somethings who like to have a good, fun, stimulating night out on the town. I can only think of one nightclub that isn't chocked to the rafters with Gen Yers. (The Tonic Bar in Kings Cross for your information, owned by Ken, an Irish man, with a lot of good sense and creative flair. Thanks, Ken!)

Not that there's anything wrong with the Gen Y haunts, it's just that I'm like the wrinkled up grape on a bunch of perfectly round plump ones. It'd be nice not to be the only one. Not that everyone has to be older either, it'd just be nice to have a few other people in the crowd who remember Bob Hawke, Atari and what Michael Jackson looked like before he became the freak.

And, hello, what's with the live music scene? Again, it caters mostly to a younger audience. In my home town, Bondi, there's nowhere to go if you want to see talented live musos, and if you do happen to come across a pub in Sydney that plays great live music, you have to deal with the drunken local yobbo at the bar, who yells out requests for Brown Eyed Girl every five minutes. 

Still, she is my beautiful Sydney, with her diamond harbour, clean, sandy beaches, moderate temperatures and outdoor livin'. She's like a nubile girl with an enticing allure that seduces you with her wonderment, until you wake up and realise that what you really want some days is a mature woman with a full bosom who knows how to enchant you with her body and her mind. She pops up every now and again, like the experienced concubine of yesteryear who knew how to tantalise all the senses. You just need to know where to look.