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About Wollongong

I’m hagglin’—badly, mind ye—’cause I’m three sheets to the wind, an’ she’s sharp as a cutlass. “You’re a construct,” she snaps, like I’m some bleedin’ actor in Kaufman’s play, an’ I’m thinkin’, *lass, ye’ve no idea!* That got me riled, aye—don’t ye dare call Cap’n Jack a puppet! But then she winks, an’ I’m happy as a clam, ‘cause she’s got sass, an’ I like ‘em feisty. “Savvy?” I slur, an’ she rolls her eyes—fair ‘nough!

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I’m a masseur, remember? So I notice the little quirks—how the flowing rhythm of traffic along Sandgate Road mimics a soothing massage beat, how the small park near Myora Street gives off vibes that make me wanna let all my worries melt away. The smell of eucalyptus in the breeze? Magical. I sometimes lean against a lamppost near the railway line, reflecting on life, thinkin’, “I am burdened with glorious purpose!” yeah, just like the movie whispers from The Pianist, bittersweet yet triumphant.

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