Last year, I wrote about the rather baffling "Sydney versus Melbourne" phenomenon. I never believed in it. I thought the two cities both had their charms and that Sydney is gorgeous, fun, accessible for everyone and Melbourne is full of secret corners and fun bars and culture and sometimes, streams of people wearing the same scarf and walking in cold groups from a brightly lit oval to a warm pub, or waving their fists out the windows of passing cars.

But sometimes myths perpetuate themselves. Wearing our normal clothes, ie not a suit, Stew and I just tried to get a cup of coffee in Sydney. We were refused at Young Alfred by a waiter who apparently is the most important person in the world if anyone's been wondering where you mind find him. Apparently, at this cafe, you had to order food. If you had just had breakfast five minutes ago, that was tough luck. Please order a wafer with some goats cheese and a herb infused gonad covered in withered spinach.

THEN, we finally got into a place that wasn't Starbucks (I was actually tempted) and the guy said "Hm. Just wait there, we'll get you a table". He got us an unmade table which he plonked away from the other patrons, whose tables had tablecloths on them and who were looking at laptops. Now, I can look at laptops as well as the next person. And, if I wanted to, I could have a job that forced me into wearing a suit, daily. BUT I DON'T. And I shouldn't have to. And I like Melbourne. In Melbourne, I accidentally didn't have enough money once foa coffee (I had forgotten to check) and instead of taking me up on my offer to hold my credit card until I got back from the ATM, they said "Bring it in next time".

Dear Mr Waiter, you are an ambassador for your city and even if we stick to your bakrupt logic that you only serve rich people, I may be the richest woman in the world. I may not look it, but I have a billion dollars in my back pocket. I heart Melbourne.

Until this morning, I hadn't had a conversation with anyone whose name I knew for two whole days. I had no deadlines except session starting times. I had no obligations, no responsibilities, although could I please turn off any mobile phones or pagers and was I aware the writers would be signing their books after the sessions in the bookshop which is to our left.

I've seen hilarious sessions, inspiring sessions, one or two quite dull sessions, and a couple of truly excellent surprises. Today, for the excellent surprises:

Excellent Surprise #1

Last night, just because I liked the title of someone's book, I went to the book launch. When she read from her book, a memoir about her (Scottish) childhood entitled Poking Seaweed With A Stick and Running Away From The Smell, I laughed out loud in the middle of a room full of people who knew each other, and I didn't want the author, Alison Whitelock, to stop reading. Ever. I bought the book despite my limited budget and I read the first few chapters with relish. Not actual, fruit-based relish. The emotional kind.

Excellent Surprise #2

Jeanette Winterson, whose book Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit is one of only a few books I have ever read... wait for it... twice... wait for it... out of choice... wait for it... AFTER HAVING STUDIED IT, is as quick-witted, hilarious, well-informed, thoughtful and spunky as I'd imagined. Possibly more so. She ran a session entitled Ask Jeanette Winterson Anything! (punctuation not mine). And people did. Someone proposed marriage, someone asked herto clarify something in her thesis, someone asked whether she'd tried to trace her biological mother (the answer to which was quite moving - Winterson has always believed that her adoptive mother knew her biological mother and could have come forward if she'd wanted to. Winterson now believes she has built herself a bit of a profile partly so her mother could find her if she wanted to and partly because, having no biological story, she had to write her own story. I couldn't be missing, she said. There are clues in several of her books which Winterson believes her mother would know if she read them.

Excellent Surprise #3

Book launches, which are at about the time when you're dying of hunger and wondering if you should just call it a day, serve free food and wine. I know. Seriously. Next I'll find out there's free internet in the cafe in which they don't mind if you don't buy their overpriced coffee. Oh, wait.

Huzzah! (Somebody bring me a hot flanelette and a plate of shucked oysters would you please? Winterson? You're not doing anything. There's a good lass).

I find it interesting that, in organising my trip to the Sydney Writers' Festival, I have checked in my bag before I have packed it, I have decided I've had a lovely time before I've arrived, and I plan to read the books by the authors I see discussing said books, after returning to Melbourne.

I would like to thank the world for accommodating my postmodern approach to the universe.