It was October 2000, and I was in New York, contemplating working in Manhattan. I was sleeping on a couch bed while attorneys checked out my visa. 'Brian' said I could do website maintenance and client accounts for his Lexington Avenue finance company. From the Staten Island Ferry, October 2000 I walked the streets, feeding myself on Coke and trips to galleries. In the evenings, we ate late, danced in gymnasiums, did group art projects and drank in bars. Deep Dish Cabaret, punching and drinking. The thing is, I was 35, not 25. I had just lost my job, and in shock, had taken this leap to New York City to recalibrate. Manhattan rents were high, and while the idea of finding an affordable cell-like room in a convent or sharing a floorspace with strangers had some appeal, I had a sense that my life might have already put down roots back home, and that transplanting myself could see me, well, come unstuck. Back home in Northcote, there were nasturtiums tumbling across the garden b