A little bird singing

It's out there somewhere, giving up its little voice to the early morning air.

So beautiful.

Such a calm morning, this fine Saturday; still bushfire smoke on the horizon, but not very much, now. I can't bring myself to turn on ABC morning television for an update on all that: it's always simply more of the same. If I had to watch one more reporter (I refuse to call them 'journalists') asking someone who's just lost everything "So how did you feel when you saw that your house was completely destroyed?", I'd only scream.

Sydney really is my home. I've tried going away from it before, and it didn't work – and then, I didn't know what it meant to me until after I'd left. Now I must admit to myself that if I were ever to have to leave Sydney again, I'd just fade away for lack of ... her? Is Sydney a she? You know, I can't think of this city as being female ... Surely Sydney is a big, brash bloke, sometimes cruel, sometimes loud and often loving (nothing like my bloke – he was never anything but loving). Yes, I feel as if I must refer to my city as ‘he’ ... and I don't know if I've ever come across that before …

Having just gone through my local photos, I find there isn't a single one that shows this area as it now looks. THEY have done so many terrible things to this little suffering suburb that it changes almost weekly. No-one seems to give a damn – although there are very probably other ancients like me, who've lived here for much longer than my 21 years, who care even more deeply about the way Pyrmont has almost disappeared under the facade of Progress. Oh, I do so loathe Progress!

In the name of history, and for the sake of that beautiful little bird's song that still echoes in the peaceful sky, I give you an idea of what it was once like, ’round here ...