In which our intrepid hero contemplates what it means to be different.

Let’s see…

There’s the tall, thin twenty-something guy on the train, who spent the entire trip shaking and moaning a singsong monologue to himself.

There’s the dithery, obsessive clerk at the stationery store, who took half an hour to order me a box of pens (and still got the colour wrong).

There’s the short, rotund subcontinental gent behind the counter at 7-Eleven who plays Troy Cassar-Daley solely so he can impress customers with his hipness, working knowledge of country music and wide selection of coffee-flavoured milk products.

And then there’s me.

Exactly when did I become the sanest person in Sydney?

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