Bank on it

Writing this column without sounding like a smug suburban mother is becoming more and more difficult each fortnight. The problem is, obviously, I am a smug suburban mother. The inner west, for all its dirty charms, is definitely the suburbs.

But, as my loyal readers know, this is not a column about smug suburban motherhood, but one, allegedly, about being a reasonably switched on Sydney dyke.

Therefore, in the interests of research, I made something of a triumphant return to Sydney’s lesbian scene on Wednesday night. That’s right, The New Bank Hotel. I’d walked past previously, even had a small look inside. But I had not, until last week, dived in to a Wednesday night without inhibition.

Once my so-called friends had berated me in-turn for leaving the family at home (for five whole hours out of six weeks! What an irresponsible girlfriend and mother!) I settled in to what ended up being a pretty bizarre night.

I saw, for example, two teenaged butches have a small punch-up, until one was punched into a shrub and the other was carried off in a full nelson.

Later, when I found myself standing next to one of the fighting parties, I asked, Are you alright? She replied: Did you just say I look masculine? Which explained everything, I thought.

Unwilling to move the conversation into potential full nelson territory, I left the scary teenage butch, only to find myself in the middle of one of those drunken love-fests with a mate, who really, really wanted to grapple me and tell me how much she loved me. And my girlfriend. And my kids. No, really. She loved me.

Then two confirmed lesbians I know plotted to kidnap an unsuspecting straight man who had wandered in with a workmate and do unspeakable things to him.

Anyways, I’ve had to do a full 180-degree turn on The Bank’s revamp. I had thought I liked it feral, but it turned out to be much better post gutting. Now we just have to organise a babysitter so my girlfriend can take part in some Wednesday night weirdness.