About Andrew Wicks

Andrew Wicks is a country boy with a penchant for movies and sport. After a few years working in health, he decided he'd rather work with today's youth and studied arts and education in rural NSW. His main interests are religion, health and lairy shirts.

Earlier this morning, one columnist stated that the solution to Sydney’s housing market is leaving it. Well, there’s also another way.



This morning, the ironically named columnist Andrew P Street wrote a piece giving hope to those who are crushed under the wheel of the Sydneytown house market. He believes that the solution is to flee it, articulating how many of his circle surreptitiously possess a plan to that end, to Thelma & Louise the pretty face and ugly desires of this place we call ours. As a matter of fact, Sydney is essentially Brad Pitt in that movie. Sexy, chiselled, but ends up robbing us blind, while we still hope that we’d be able to fuck it back.



Street goes on to explain that three-quarters of those he asked did have an exit strategy in place, be it, Hobart, Adelaide (as he chose), or back to the warm hug of grandmama’s house. Anywhere but here is the unifying maxim of his findings.

Well, I don’t really want to naysay his findings, but the peers I’ve reviewed have a rather different take:

Don’t think about it.

As Street accurately opined, it’s impossible to get a midweek drink (sort of), you can’t park anywhere near places that matter (I don’t have a car, not worth it) and the important places of old Sydney are no longer, as storied icons of independent music have since become the hottest mini-golf jazz spots in town, replete with an on-fleek Game of Thrones throne hole, because current trends live forever.

I went there on a Tinder date.

Perhaps what made the streets where he lived has changed for him, and that’s perfectly normal, and upping stumps to Radelaide is a fair thing to do. I’m not criticising his decision. However, those who remain, do so, because we understand a precious truth. We’re doomed. We’re the rental Sisyphus, forever sentenced (in yearly blocks) to roll a rock (or our possessions) up a hill. And when we reach the crest of our lease, we’re magically returned to the bottom, to start over again. We were, of course, cursed by the original sin, the erroneous thought of living in the place we were born in. Ha ha ha.

But that was eight leases ago, so ancient history.

As Camus espoused (and I know this because I studied philosophy in a tumbledown sharehouse in Ashfield, then Five Dock, then Riverwood), is that Sisyphus can improve his situation by a quick change of perspective; or in the common parlance…with one weird trick. Al’s theory is that if Sis can view his punishment as not a burden, but as a positive, he frees himself from his situation. If he’s fine with rolling a rock up a hill, no probs.

This can be easily packed in a box and delivered to the Sydney housing market. Yes, it’s expensive, and it hates us, and we’ll never own a house, blah blah, but if we embrace the gypsy lifestyle, take it to our blackened hearts, suddenly there is change. Everything is indeed new. New coffee shops to make yourself familiar in, a new Woolworths to gleefully trudge around, new walking paths to discover, new neighbours to message hey u up? at 3am, new everything. And yes, moving day will come as it always does, but the focus should be on the other 364 days of the lease. A push to create a memorable home, a valuable snapshot of memory to recall when your next house disappoints.

Even if it does, you’re not there forever.

Roll on, Sydney.