Do you know the way to San Jose?

By now, it should be clear to just about everyone that mister nora is a boundingly successful cosmopolitan wit, a firecracker of a woman who spends her long summery days sloping around town making chit chat, drinking peach daiquiris and denouncing reds/towel heads/all variety of unaustrayans at every possible opportunity. This might sound idyllic, but despite fulfilling all my lazy childhood dreams, it turns out that being a boundingly successful cosmopolitan wit is in fact NOT ALL IT’S CRACKED UP TO BE.

The authorities have decided that in order to expose under-serviced rural communities to the thrilling experience of mister nora’s je ne sais quoi, quid pro quo and tinea pedis, mister nora must be posted to WHOOP WHOOP. If you’re not familiar with Whoop Whoop I suggest you purchase a subscription to National Geographic, in which there are many fine and informative articles analyzing the quirky rustic practices of Whoop Whoop locals, which lately include “Plucking Your Monobrow”, “Having Sex with Uncle Ned” and “Catching Typhoid”.

On Sunday, I am off. Out. Gone. Poof. Fini. No more Danny’s Burgers for the likes of me! Clacky Claudie is coming with me, The Dude will soon follow, and I’m leaving Sloginski in charge of the house. Meanwhile I’ve booked the Pussycats in to a meditation and relaxation retreat (for the terminally evil).

So au revoir, steel smelting Melbourne. Salut, North of Nowhere. I will return, but will I be the same woman?

Let's hope not.

xoxo nora