The forgotten allure of conversations inside cars, like fast and furious, but cooler. Your brown dog in his many pantone shades is left behind in Cooranbong where we kill the get directions voice, her indefatigable English accent permanently miffed at being called to account for anywhere. At the petrol stations I feel sleepy like River Pheonix, though when we hit town you crave background noise. You’ve got the pinball hips, as the multiballs rain down, though ordering fish this far inland is a risk. Soon we’re holed up in our executive apartment by the mighty Murrumbidgee, two women enter…Even mum’s sure she’s met this one before, like in that Seinfeld episode when Elaine decides to stay with her ‘bizarro’ friends. Out on the balcony, with a rubber tire ashtray, ugg boots and Suntory the cockatoos are ecstatic. Or we’re having a Sunday roast chicken expertly stuffed up the jacksie. Until the drive home spools on like archival footage, passed the cli-fi of the wind farms and a burger in Gunning.