No, it isn’t a four by two in the burbs on a quarter acre block.

For 20-30somethings in Perth it’s an after-work home-handyman renovation-in-progress on a 3 by 1 with a timber deck extension, lots of shiny stainless steel (or is it brushed this season?), a couple of feature walls and a hundred sparkly downlights burning through the ceiling. You get extra points if you have an extreme mortgage and a massive commute.

This is why I never have anything to talk about at barbeques. My bathroom looks the same as it did two years ago, except perhaps the grout is coming away a bit more and now the new kitten spends a lot of time being a furry brooch hanging off the towels. We don’t have an oiled timber deck. Our house is not swathed in stainless steel. Hell we don’t even have children and we only have one car. Worst of all, there’s nary a feature wall to be found. That’s almost enough to get you completely evicted from generation X or Y or whatever it is these days.

So why is it that in this land of opportunity and freedom and expression and wonderfulness we have become a single-minded generation obsessed with backyard banality and reckless renovation?

It is obvious really. The only place ever open in Perth is Bunnings.

Despite the new legislation which was sold as a scheme to make Perth a mini-Melbourne, vibrant and full of lovely little places to have a drink, the reality is that it is rather difficult to drink or shop after work anywhere satisfactory. Unless of course you like socket sets, designer tap fittings and nondescript monstrosities where every man and his dog goes to get completely shitfaced.

In my very own area a local restaurateur proposed to open a small bar down the road in what is now a derelict run down sort of place. The council naturally rejected the application on the grounds of insufficient parking.

Plainly the local councils have banded together (except, to some degree, the city of Perth itself) in order to maintain the status quo in Perth of Sunday morning hammer shopping and driving absolutely bloody everywhere while drunk.

So what is there left to do? Grab a beer or 40, paint the spare room antique-off-white accented with lemon and drive to your mate’s place to watch the footie on the new plasma installed on his deck. If there’s a break in the game just complain about interest rates and repeat ad infinitum. You’ll fit right in.