My overriding desire to write this post is to simply ask: is the men’s perm really a thing again? I only ask because it seems to me to be a regular feature on juveniles aged around 14-19 years, often working in coffee shops. And I’m not talking natural curls, more a tightly wound crown befitting the Princes of Anfield circa 1982. If only Sir Keir was to go get himself a nice wet look perm everyone might just calm down, calm down.

Now that I’ve got that out of my system it’s back to more typical hair matters. I was expecting many more mullets in the crowd at Monster Truck Mania Live! but it was mostly amped up kids and disappointed parents. I guess once you’ve seen a Monster Truck – and inhaled precious, fine particulate – you’ve seen a Monster Truck. Dragging this out any further seems frivolous in today’s climate.

We’d arrived in Sydney the day before, decamping at Sydney Olympic Park for the big event. Equally impressive and soulless, a land where giant stadia and arenas and parking areas are fringed by chain hotels, identikit apartments and big screened sports bars.

On its very own peninsula, wetland and ponds creep into sculpted parklands and water features that clearly have a 1999 aesthetic. The wetlands eventually expand into wider channels and creeks, the Parramatta River, and Sydney Harbour. And there is a pontoon from which to catch a ferry. Hardly an express, it’s a passage of harbourside house envy transforming as it reaches the city of high rise, coat hanger, and prawn shell.

We hop off at Barangaroo, perhaps the newest and shiniest iteration of Sydney’s high rise skyline. Away from the breezy harbour, it’s a pleasant early evening in lowering sun. Cruise boats and yachts cluster to the right of me, diners and drinkers to the left. People caught somewhere between high end oysters and champagne and the footy and a schnitty. The Roosters plump and boastful.

For once, we don’t have Chinese food but some delicious Thai. To get there we navigate the added hurdles of Anzac Day pub spillovers adding to the frenetic congestion along George Street. Many are looking resplendent in uniform and medals, belied by stumbling and slurring and, for one or two, picking up the chick who was crying in the toilets ten minutes ago. It’s an interesting commemoration of war loss.

After dinner, I grab some dessert and leave my wife and her friend to chat in two languages I can’t fully understand – Mandarin and female. Solo, I contemplate second dessert and pass the time with my old camera friend. The scene is not quite archetypal Sydney, but there is enough light and water and handy resting places to have a play around, to feel immersed in a clear purpose and goal, rather than just wandering aimlessly and regretting that Dubai cookie dough ice cream.

If I was a bit weary by the end of it all, this was usurped by the weariness of the train back to our hotel. I’m sure during the Olympics this was a rapid journey of hope and optimism. Tonight it is a trundle beset by yoofs with feet on seats and a confidence that everyone on the carriage is longing for a soundtrack of TikTok vapidscrolling. And if that’s not enough, don’t get me started on the change of trains at Lidcombe.

Thank goodness to be in the car the next morning, pre-hunting parking spots to little avail and crossing that famous harbour to a random warehouse full of random things from China. I’m along for the Top Ryde and a dessert kitchen bar from one of the hundreds of people who have been through Masterchef. Of course this was my cup of tea, though I would have been less impressed if it wasn’t paid for by my dearest.

And so to an anniversary present from me to her. Monster trucks. Who said romance was dead? Impressive for a bit, I was glad of the interludes for merch purch and, to be honest, the far more entertaining and skilful stunt bikes. Plus the fresh air was good.

The trucks themselves went through various heads to heads, disappointingly staying in one piece and leading to an eventual winner. A fat grizzled driver with a beard emerged to celebrate, donating his comedy oversized trophy to a worthy child plucked from the big screen. Star of the show however was a white Toyota Corolla modified with a jet engine. Far more attuned to the location and audience.

If only we could whoosh down to Wollongong in such fashion. Or, indeed, Dapto. Instead, various intersections and lane merges as suburbia stretches into the bush. Hitting the coastline at the photogenic Bald Hill Lookout, it was like Monster Trucks all over again as hundreds of gigantic cars go around in circles, making it up as they go along, holding everyone up and exuding plenty of expensive gasoline.

One of the several upsides of the original Monster Truck show lasting less than two hours was the presence of daylight as we clung to the coastline over the Seacliff Bridge and through numerous seaside villages. Light is becoming a rarer commodity as the year approaches tax time in the southern hemisphere, and the days feel more rushed. I wasn’t expecting to eat proper fish and chips by the beach with proper vinegar all still under a dusky sky.

We stayed in the Gong just for the night, really as an excuse to break the journey up and take advantage of the long spell of fine autumn days. Autumn days that are still okay for shorts by the sea and envious coffee (albeit public holiday coffee that came with archetypal wait times and chunky surcharges). It was nice to wander by the water and wonder about the fine compromise of city, beach and nature that is Wollongong.

Nature dominants over the city and its satellite sprawls in the form of the Illawarra escarpment. Once up here, fine days can become misty chills. Stopping today at Carrington Falls, it remained fine and the only mist stemmed from the plunge of racing water continuing to carve out deep, pristine gorges.

Heading homeward, we paused in Robertson for potatoes and other vegetables, future antidote for what became a late lunch stop at Goulburn Maccas. I can’t say I yearn for such a spot, but it’s convenient and my wife seems tantalised by reward points. Besides, on a weekend materialised entirely around tickets to see Monster Trucks, this seems the most apt way to end. To close the loop. On our drive, our journey, and on the hair follicles of many a yoof both serving and receiving a Big Mac and fries.