Blog

There's a moment that happens in Perth. Not everywhere in Australia — specifically here. You're standing at the Subi Market on a Saturday morning, kids weaving between your legs, a paper bag of tomatoes in one hand and a coffee in the other. The stall holders know the regulars. Someone's dog is sitting very patiently next to a pile of sourdough loaves. The sun is already doing that particular Perth thing — warm but not punishing, golden and completely unbothered.

I have been in love with this city for most of my life. I've watched her change and grow, and to me she has always been an elegant lady in couture clothing — a little eccentric, always considered, never quite like anywhere else.

So you've sold. You've bought. You've survived the paperwork, the negotiations, the eight weekends of shoes-on-shoes-off. Surely the hard bit is done? Not quite.

The kids were not as delighted as I was. My husband was always quick to volunteer to mind the baby outside — like the three of them had a standing arrangement to cry on cue so dad didn't have to look at one more house. It's exhausting. Each place blurs into the next. You start forgetting which one had the good kitchen, which one had the dodgy bathroom, which one felt right the moment you walked in.