Did I write earlier that I usually talk to everyone with a dog, indeed, that I talk to everyone when travelling? Well, when in Sydney you can still talk to everyone with a dog but don't try to talk to anyone without a dog.
If you do, depending on the age of the person you're talking to and the way you are talking to them, you may be considered to be a potential pedophile, a sexual harasser or, at best, a pathological serial killer.
The first rule of human interaction in Sydney is: There is none! There is no eye contact! Even in the shops they're looking at your wallet instead of at your face. There are no acknowledging smiles. Everyone behaves as if they're waiting to see who will strike the first blow.
The only time I saw the façade crack was at the top of George Street. I was sitting at a pavement table outside the Great Southern Hotel which had allowed me to use their toilet - don't ever use the public toilets on the Grand Concourse of Central Station; the stench will kill you; if the stench doesn't, the germs will - and I was returning their favour by buying a beer (it may've been a few more but we won't go there now).
As I sat there, watching the passing parade, a strange apparition of a man came walking along, effing everyone he passed. For a moment, we all looked at one another and smiled, grateful for not having got there ourselves but knowing what strange things a big city can do to a man.
As for the Great Southern Hotel, it has existed since 1858 when it was known as 'The Farmer's Home' and frequented by country members. I just loved its old-fashioned charm and since I'm also a country member (remember, John?), I have already decided to grace it with my presence during my next visit to Sydney.
