I'm so depressed I can hardly move. I'm in a comfortable house in the comofortable, middle-class suburbs. It hurts.

I'm a long, long way from Fitzroy, in both time and distance. It hurts. Everything hurts.

I grew up in a place like this, and I've spent a great deal of time and energy making sure I'd never end up in a place like it again. And yet, here I am, housesitting. Earlier today I went for a walk around the neighbourhood. It was perhaps the quietest walk I've ever taken. There are lots of trees here, and lots of driveways. There are more cars than people. There is an astonishing sense of isolation. You need a car to go anywhere. If you're too young to drive, you're stuck. Deeply and completely stuck. Despite being old enough to drive, and old enough to have only vague memories of youth, it's a feeling I remember well.

This suburb is like a small country town, which is right smack next to .. another small country town. In every direction is yet another small country town, and another, and another. There's no feeling that any of these places are here for a reason. The horizon is devoid of skyscrapers. There's no harbour teeming with commerce. There are no universities, no exotic restaurants, no streets paved with gold. This place has none of the appeal that big cities traditionally offer to their residents. I find all that ... disturbing. And more than that: I find it ... scary.

And it's also possible that I find myself ... over-reacting. I'm only here for another few days, after all, and at least I'm in a lovely house with a piano.