HOMEBUSH Hotel
THIS IS ALL SO BLOODY foreign to me - staying home every weekend or day-off.
It’s foreign to me to not hang with mates at the end of the day or at the gym where the losing battle is so regularly fought.
It’s foreign to me to head to the other side footpath when someone’s coming the other way rather than pausing as we pass and shooting the breeze for a bit.
It’s all damn foreign and I want to go home.
Problem is, I bloody AM at home! And there’s nowhere to go.
So, it’s totally fitting that the emotions that’re so novel (now there’s a word I’ve heard waaaay too much of) and foreign that we’re all feeling are best summed up by a foreign word.
And that word is “Zugunruhe”
I’m suffering from it and if you’re not, I’m not sure what the hell you’re doing reading this magazine in the first place.
It’s pronounced ‘Tsoo –goon- rooha” and just why it’s not been picked up by some long-lunching light-bulb momenting man-bunned wunderkind
