Lately my Sydney life adventure has been taking me to a suburb called Huntingwood.
I'd expected maybe green ferns and grasses inside thickets of oak and birch trees. The elk and rabbits wouldn't be visible, but they'd be around. What I found was a flat plain of light-industrial sites and wide roads nestled in the nook of a motorway and a highway about thirty kilometres west of the Sydney Opera House.
My first guess as to why they named it Huntingwood was obviously wrong.
Yesterday, as I pulled out onto Huntingwood Drive, Huntingwood and set off for home, I had to nudge the steering wheel slightly to avoid driving over a sleeper of treated pine that was lying discarded by the gutter.
...I found it!
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The woman with the fake tan stepped into my office, sat across from my desk and lit a cigarette.
At least, she would, sometime in the next 20 minutes. Smelling the future has advantages, but precision isn’t one of them.