Through a series of dramatic events, I am now living in a suburb posher than anywhere I have ever inhabited in my life. It’s set close to the shore and we’ve spent the last few months rubbing our eyes in disbelief at the sunsets on late afternoon walks. Water proximity tends to breed poshness with people willing to pay vast sums hand over fist for expansive views and the chance to wear deck shoes in public without looking out of place.
As Australian playwright David Williamson once said of this city, “No one in Sydney ever wastes time debating the meaning of life – it’s getting yourself water frontage. People devote a lifetime to the quest.” So here we are, in the heartland of rounded vowels and breezy linens. Everyone here is well dressed and well coiffed. In their matching activewear and designer sunglasses, they could all pass as celebrities on their day off. While the only famous person vibe we give off is that of Matt Damon going for a swim in Dalkey in tracksuit pants with his togs slung into a SuperValu bag.
This place is so posh that we don’t have a Catholic church in striking distance. Presbyterians, Baptists and Anglicans, they’ve got all the different flavours of Protestants you could want, but there’s not a sniff of transubstantiation around these parts. That’s how far we’ve come up in the world, my partner (the former altar boy) says to me.
There’s something curious going with the dogs too. In our old Dublin 8 neighbourhood, people seemed to compete with each other about who had rescued the dog with the worst health problems. There were greyhounds with anxiety, Jack Russells with mother issues and no one ever seemed to buy a cat, instead they were just handed one by the universe. It’s “adopt, don’t shop” all the way. But here people have enough money that they don’t have to pretend-play “having a conscience”. It’s all glossy, wheat-coloured dogs like golden retrievers and yellow Labradors. The kind that could win best in show at Crufts or convincingly rescue a toddler from a mineshaft in a TV series.
I’ve moved to a Sydney suburb so posh, it makes me uneasy
If we expect a competition once held in a Kerry car park to laud all deserving Irish women, we might be asking a bit too much
After years living in Ireland, everything in Australia feels suspiciously easy
I’ve yet to meet a woman who has regretted not getting married but plenty of married ones who have
These dogs seem to be as essential as impractically large black SUVs in the “rich family” starter pack. And having a child with the name that could get them confused with a Victorian ghost like Adelaide or Arthur. There are lots of Claras and Henrys skipping up and down the road but strangely a lack of Dazzas or Dakotas. No one has spelt a name where there should be a “y” instead of “i” or “k” instead of “c” because, from what I can gather, posh people really lack creativity. Spare a thought for the boring old Jessicas who could have been much more exotic and impressive “Jessykas”. No one else’s mother around here has apparently put two names together to make one, ie Brianna, but that’s their problem. In truth, it’s very hard to compete with the creative flair of my mother who has a child named “Shane” but manages to spell it with a “y”.
The neighbourhood is lovely. It’s one of those ones that could be described as “leafy”, which is the adjective only given to middle- or upper-middle-class neighbourhoods. I’ve never lived in a “leafy” suburb before. Maybe some that have been optimistically described as “up and coming” or “socioeconomically diverse”. I’m from one that a fellow journalist colleague flat-out called “that s**t hole” when heading out to do a crime story in the same locale.
Despite the maintained parks and well-connected transport, I feel uneasy about it. Like I’ve wandered into a designer store where I know everything costs more than I can afford and I’m afraid to break something. I’ve noticed that no one pops down the shops in their pyjamas and slippers even for a late-night emergency packet of biscuits. I’ve not seen one neighbour in a dressing gown even standing on their own front lawn. Everyone is dressed and starched and ironed. But I think that’s an essential part of poshness. Denying your own bodily needs and yourself the pleasure of a Penneys fleecy pyjama two-set while drinking a morning coffee outside in the sun.
I’ll have to introduce them to fluffy house socks and squirty cream in a can, and the cultural importance of the Real Housewives series. These poor posh people who have only read the book and never seen the movie don’t know what they’re missing. Imagine never drinking wine from a box or not having a loud mini-motorbike to play on unsupervised as a child or having a sad, small TV because you have a theatre membership.
They’re lucky I’ve moved in next door to show them the error of their ways.