The Thousands

If you’re the one with the orange tree in Collingwood that hangs over the fence, I need to say this: I steal your oranges. It’s not that I’m hard up for fruit but I like to eat local, and your tree is about as local as it gets. If I leant over my balcony and threw a skittle at Nolan’s brand new cafe on Oxford street, I’d hit it in the ribs. Then, it would crawl over, get back on its God damn feet, and pour me one of Guatemala’s finest.

The coffee here is no joke. It’s in the canopy with all the serious players. There’s been a ludicrous amount of justified hype around Proud Mary and a few minutes in the old converted textile factory will show you why. Frankly, I’m glad a real contender’s arrived. This all feels long overdue.

Finally, I’m sorry to whoever owned that fancy green muscle car parked outside this morning. When I was locking up my bike I may have scratched it. I’ve got one of those big-ass heavy chains from New York City. Some real gangster shit. Maybe next time don’t park so close, doochbag.