It's been a big, noisy weekend around these parts. The footy's back, which drew hordes of people to the MCG, and the Formula 1 Grand Prix screamed its way to the chequered flag just the other side of St Kilda Road from my place.
Even though I sometimes have a little whinge about being crushed on a tram with sports fans or having the bejesus scared out of me during fireworks season, I do love being in the thick of things. No way would I swap it for a life in the suburbs (and yes, I have lived in the suburbs).
Today we were blasted by the sonic boom of a fighter jet flying over the grand prix circuit, followed by a couple of hours of high-pitched squeal from the Formula 1 cars, and then The Who fired up for the after-race concert.
I love the buzz in the city during a major event - even if I don't care much for the event itself, but as it happens, I am fond of both AFL and the grand prix. Yes, I admit it. I like fast, noisy cars. I find the rumble of a V8 engine aurally pleasing. I was socialised that way, having grown up with a rev head father and brother and been carted around various motor racing events in my childhood. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.