Sime says

Leaving Italy and in desperate need of some clean clothing, I found myself strolling down Jermyn Street. There's nothing Aryan about it. It couldn't be more English; by its locality – in the centre of London – and by virtue of what it provides, access to high quality British artistry and craftsmanship. Shopping on this strip can be an intimidating experience. Dating back to 1664 when Charles II authorised Henry Jermyn, the Earl of St Albans, to develop the area it has flourished ever since and is home to the city's finest men's tailors, suppliers of leather goods and shirt makers. You need to have a purpose to shop on Jermyn Street. Enter a store, make a decision and don't look back. I know shopping, at least I thought I did. Captain Peacock swooped as soon as I stepped foot in his shop full of shirts.  He stopped short of asking the obvious question, "are you being served?" Instead, he politely enquired into my immediate needs and henceforth s...

7am and the ferry terminal at Genoa was near empty, except for a lone gunman standing at the customs' checkpoint. With thumbs hitched on his belt, the carabinieri sized me up through his cylindrically-shaped sunglasses as I marched towards him. "Bongiorno Bastia?" I enquired. The Sylvester Stallone look-alike momentarily moved his hand atop his pistol. Realising my incendiary words might have aggravated him, I quickly followed it up with some fluent English, "the ferry to Bastia you bastard, this way?", or words to that effect. "Si, terminale cinque" he replied. "No, terminala nove" (four) I said whilst pointing to the digital screen on the other side of the building that displayed the departure time and terminal number. Peeved for having questioned his authority, there was a momentary halt to proceedings. He was either going to shoot me or wave me through. After studying the board at length, he chose the latter option. I breezed...

On hands and knees and with my head under the bedside table I grappled with trying to plug in a timer switch into a power point. My tech-savvy father had accumulated a draw full of electronic gadgetry necessary to illuminate Sydney if needed, and in process switch on enough lights to deter thieves when one was away. With the job done and whilst rising from the floor, I came face to face with a sticker on the bottom of a blue plastic container. ' Rosemary Dean, date of cremation: 5 December,' it read. There she was, reduced to ashes, just five centimetres from my nose. Up until this point, I was in total control. My bag was packed and I was ready to head overseas. Cradling the container I squeezed it tightly against my chest. My stomach muscles tensed and a swell of emotion began to flow from Balmoral Beach. It rose quickly up Coronation Avenue, flooded down Frascatti lane, ran up the driveway and hit me fair in the face. My fingers dug into the sides of the lifeles...

Leaving the hills behind, I found myself at the Zoo as a Volunteer Keeper in the Australian native fauna division. Many years helping farming friends eradicate kangaroos from their properties had caught up with me. Once a fortnight, armed with a bucket, rake and shovel I entered the marsupials' domain. The job was a challenge: sweeping malteser-sized Skippy excreta onto a shovel and making it stay there without rolling off.  It was like an egg and spoon race as I attempted to deftly balance the bog and transfer it to a bin. Nine times out of ten the little turds would roll off the shovel, hit the beautifully raked ground where they would pick up speed and tumble downhill. It was a shit of job. Elsewhere, sanitary Sime fed carrlion to a screaming Tassie Devil called Pauline, had a kip in the nocturnal house and tried to dance with a Brolga. But it was a grizzly encounter with a Koala Bear named Darwin that truly left its mark. I wanted to call him Charles but decided o...

I bought it in the 90s, at a time when an offer to 'show one's etchings' might buy me a ticket to manhood. With a glamorous girlfriend on one arm and a glass of champagne in the other hand I purchased the painting by John Ogburn from a reputable gallery in Chippendale. I felt pretty chipper about it. The moment of madness had nothing to do with any kudos attached to acquiring artwork, for on this  occasion I was genuinely struck by the subject: the Australian landscape. Particularly country NSW and the wide-open spaces that spread themselves before you like a seductive mistress the moment you accelerate west from Lithgow. The urge to drive deeper into her heart hits me every time. Back in the gallery, my deviant mind transformed the perfectly framed hillocks hanging before me into a range of majestic buttocks cavorting in a luscious palette of sunburned shades. Pubic mounds of woodland intersecting steep gullies, a snaking river pushing agonisingly close to a V-sh...

I don't have a head for numbers, so walking into my local bank branch sends me into a cold sweat. You'd think that after stepping foot into this particular money pit for more than 45 years, that the tellers would tell everyone about my arrival, the manager might hand me gold ingots and interest rates would climb in expectation. Not so, for in 2018 this is one antsy place to be in. Just the other day, fed up with waiting and with an obvious want to attract attention, the fellow behind me in the queue exhaled in a fashion not too dissimilar to the way an elephant seal snorts hot fish breath into the air.  With the odour wafting over my shoulder I shuffled forward but was blocked by Mavis who had just strolled in, with her passbook, and taken up poll position in front of me. Up ahead at the money end of the queue, the manger – whilst on the phone to bank central – gave directives to the customer in front of him. Stymied at every angle, the customer left shaking his hea...

Weeks ago Qantas CEO Alan Joyce stood in front of a big bird and proclaimed it to be "da Queen of da skoies". He was referring to the 747 jumbo jet which will soon be retired from service. I beg to differ Alan for there is a bird that has ruled above Australia well before the monarchy first touched down. And I'm a major shareholder in its operation. There's nothing cheap about my bird –  she's more A380 than ezyjet. Her robust and stocky fuselage sprouts wings that lift and transport her bulk with ease. Flying daily non stop from lily pilly to veranda for more than 10 years, flights are on schedule and land the moment I step into the kitchen. I provide fuel for return fights in the form of raw chicken necks that are swallowed and stowed quicker than a flight attendant disarms doors and cross checks. Other domestic carriers do little to disrupt the flight path of this Australian icon. She is totally unflappable. Cheap and noisy miners do their best to del...