I work in Artarmon, in the north shore.  Work seems to be getting more and more frantic lately meaning many early mornings and some late nights and the occasional weekend.

In good traffic, it’s an hour drive, when things are bad it could take two hours – each way. Some of my kind work friends (and there are many because I’m particularly blessed) have asked if I’ve thought about moving closer to work or at least to the City.

It’s not like I haven’t moved out of the Cabra ghetto, I’ve lived just about everywhere in Sydney; as far west as Penrith, Lane Cove in the North, Paddington, Kensignton, Darlinghurst and Surry Hills in the east and Newtown and Enmore in the inner west – and even York Street in the heart of the City.  I have never been one to plan out my life or where I live much, it seems like I moved out of home early and kept moving.

I must admit when I get up at 5am during dark winter mornings, I have thought about moving away from Cabra.  It seems just about anywhere would be closer to work.

But then I think of the things I’d have to give up, the Saturday 6am ritual of buying hot knot rolls for breakfast from my favourite bread shop in Canley Heights.

Chatting to the old women who make Vietnamese desserts and cured pork at home to sell them illegally on John Street on the weekends.  Sometimes our casual conversation is abruptly ends as they quickly pack their wares into a trolley and sprint away, with the speed of someone half their age, from an approaching Council Officer.  Admiring their resilience, because they’d be back once the Council Officer is gone.

And speaking of food, of course how could I leave all the delicious food from all around the world which is literally outside my door step?

Then there’s the homeless guy that sits on Railway Parade between Canley Vale and Cabramatta.  He has a shock of mangled Asian jet black hair, a beard that was long but patchy and starting to grey.  His skin dark and uneven, his eyes bloodshot but necessarily alert.  Last Christmas Day I made a point of finding him to give a Christmas plate which had freshly sliced ham, buttered bread, mango and cherries.  He politely refused but asked for $10.  As I walked away clutching the plate, I saw him fished out some old fried rice which someone had chucked in the bin.

I’d miss seeing the old men on the mall, their eyes cloudy and weary but their voices and gestures loud and strong, reading the paper or just watching the world go by.  They dress up in their finest slacks, shirt and obligatory loose grey or brown jacket… but they’re not doing anything special.  They’re happy though because they are part of a community, I know it because I see their smiling, wrinkled faces.

I still get swept up with the local drama of Cabramatta – which restaurant is doing well, who’s son has just graduated as a doctor, who’s daughter is now a pharmacist.  Even saucier still, who’s divorcing, who’s put on weight, who’s lost weight, who’s lost too much at the pokies and who’s had plastic surgery.

There’s something about this community that seems to have seeped into every part of me.  Like a slow drug it runs through my vein and I can’t imagine my life before that.  Now, I can’t imagine a life outside Cabramatta.