Two ginger cats in the house now. We keep trying to get them to meet and work out their differences. But whenever Drazic comes inside, Ruben hides under the bed. And on the odd occasion when Ruben ventures out into the kitchen, Drazic gracefully absents himself to the garden. This has been going on for four days.

*

After seven, Roberta called me up. Was I still coming over? The Petersham Bowling and Community Club had been shortlisted to host an ABC radio show with James O’Louglin. Along with the other contestants, Roberta was booked in to do a live pitch on air. James was then going to announce the winner immediately. Some club people were gathering at Roberta and John’s to drink a drop of champagne and lend support. I got out of the bath where I’d been languishing, and made my way over to Brighton Street, stopping for some hot and very salty chips from Silvas to line my stomach in preparation for the booze.
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I turned right onto Hordern Street. Presumably, the famous Anthony Hordern, who ran a huge department store in Sydney, lived around here. I figured I’d be able to weave through to Parramatta Road. But half way down, I could see it was a “no through road”. In a garage at the end of the cul-de-sac, a woman was fussing over piles of cardboard boxes. I waved and walked up to her. She was packing vegetables. Organic vegies in Petersham!
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Every Tuesday, the Marrickville Council archives, upstairs in the Petersham Town Hall, are open to the public. I arrived just after eleven. A ballroom dancing class was in progress in the Hall itself. Graceful Chinese couples spinning and twirling. It was just as Vanessa had described:

Ballroom dancers seen through doorways. Makes the heart hot air balloon.

I was seized with a sudden craving to join them on the dancefloor. Perhaps I could convince Vanessa to be my dancing pardner next Tuesday morn. Then I could show off some of the scorchin’ moves I learned in highschool…
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There’s a new “poll” on the right in the sidebar, so as we can find out how many readers of the ‘sham are locals. Let me know if you experience technical troubles with the poll, ‘cos it’s the first time I’ve tried to install that sort of thing…

I arrived at “Darren’s Backyard” just before five. A band was setting up to play. This was Caxton. I weaved through the cool nerdy rocker kids shuffling about on the gravel until I spotted Vanessa. I’ve never met Vanessa, but I recognised her face from her Flickr site. It was a bit like a blind date, but without the sub-plot of romance. Don’t get me wrong – it certainly is romantic to meet someone for the first time whose work you have long admired. Vanessa is something of a legend in the zine world, and I’m a big fan of her obsessive writing projects. So it was super flattering to get her email saying she’d been following my blog, and inviting me to this backyard gig. I guess it must be a bit like this for people who “meet” online and then travel halfway across the globe to eyeball each other in the flesh. All the standard mini anxious anticipations apply: What will she think of me? Will I be able to live up to the online persona I’ve constructed? Will there be misunderstandings as to our intentions vis-a-vis romance? etc etc.
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I had a steady stream of visitors yesterday. Bilateral Petersham has begun to draw folks in from the outside world. You see, if my friends want to spend time with me, they have no choice: it’s the ‘sham or nothing, mate!
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Saturday, 7.21am:
An overcast morning. I open the kitchen door to survey the street. The block of flats across the way has done a big “hard rubbish” purge. An old mattress, metal ironing board frame, wooden clothes rack, dead TV. Actually, it looks like someone has moved out. That’s the second family this month. Chris said the building’s owned by the church – they house refugees there for up to six months at a time. A man shuffles past the pile of junk, noses around, selects a plastic mop, and continues on his way. Without warning, Drazic appears at my feet. Has he been out all night? I scoop some grutz into his bowl. He wolfs down his breakfast.

And now, I’m sitting in the dark, with a cup of lemon and ginger, typing. All is quiet.

So far so good.
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It’s Friday night, half past ten. You may have detected from the tardy, irregular updates, that I’ve been having a bit of a hard time knuckling down this week.

Not that it’s been “unproductive”. Sure, I’ve been meeting people. There’s been no shortage of good feedback about the project, and exciting new adventures are lining themselves up for next week. Best of all, some of the friendships I formed early on are really starting to firm up.

For example, who could believe that only a week has passed since I first met Tully (and he’s already buggin me with curly questions)? Or that things could be quite solid with Lucy, after only two cups of tea? Or that I lived in Petersham for nearly two years before starting a conversation with Carmela and her daughters from Charlie’s Deli? And who would have known that Chris (“eyes on the street”) could turn out to be such a strong local ally?
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[NB: the following blog post has been rated M: for Mature Audiences. It contains Nudity, Gambling, and…Adult Themes.]

Go on. Admit it. You’ve been past there dozens of times. You’ve joked about it. You’ve used it as a landmark when giving directions between Leichhardt and Marrickville. You’ve admired the neon signs. You’ve “always wanted” to go in – to see what Jelly Wrestling at the Oxford is all about. But you just never quite got around to it, did you?

Well, last night, a brave contingent of locals and ring-ins alike finally breached the threshold of Petersham’s Oxford Tavern.

To be fair, some of us had been to the Oxford before. But on that occasion, the pub’s front room was closed off, and we perched uncomfortably in “Rita’s Late Nite Lounge” between the pokies and the door, feeling rather cheated (but also mildly relieved) at how tame the whole thing had turned out to be. The full Oxford Experience was yet to come.
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