I'm a 6 in Sydney and a 9 in Melbourne. Is it any wonder I'm leaving? (2025)

After 25 years living among the beautiful people of Sydney's eastern suburbs, I'm packing my bags. I've bought a one-way ticket. I'm gone.

Now, I'm going to sound painfully old by saying this, but I will anyway: Bondi has changed over the last quarter of a century - and not for the better.

Yes, I'm sure myyounger, perkier neighbours will tell me the area is just as perfect as it ever was and that I am the one who has aged.

But I simply disagree. Yes, I'm not in my twenties anymore and certainly my outlook on life has evolved in my thirties, forties and now as a woman in her fifties.

But Bondi has changed. And with the wisdom of years spent overlooking that glorious beach every morning, I can say that with authority.

The era of sleepy surfers meandering on the prom saying 'g'day', kids dipping at the skate ramp before the school bell, Monday night crab racing at BB's, the bustling Beach Road Hotel full of cheering locals watching footy games... is dead.

Bondi has become Disneyland for influencers and fake wellness warriors. A place where weekend queues for overpriced bacon and eggs can go for hours, and a sea of 21-year-old models clad in P.E Nation clog up the footpath at 5am.

Hall Street, once thriving with local shops and cafés, is now one big construction zone, with hi-vis-clad tradies, cranes, chicken shops and high rises pumping up the prices and driving away the people that made Bondi, well, Bondi.

A local lamented Bondi had become the newGold Coast, tacky and vacuous, with rushed-up apartment buildings with thin walls, faux marble splashbacks and multimillion-dollar price tags.

And then there's me, and women of my generation.

At 51, I feel like I've officially aged out of Bondi, where the only wrinkles that are allowed are on the collective uniform of overpriced white linen pants.

It feels like Bondi is a no-go zone for Gen X.

You have bikini-clad Gen Z and glued-to-their-phones millennials, then you skip a generation straight to the perma-tanned baby boomers sitting on $4million homes.

I look around and wonder what the hell happened to my little village I first discovered as a wide-eyed British expat back in the year 2000.

What was once my coastal idyll has now become a swell of irritating 'content makers', reality stars, D-listers staging pap shoots, Pip Edwards wannabes, OnlyFans models barely out of private school, and the self-obsessed nose-ringed yogis who litter the streets with vapes, s*** furniture and condom wrappers.

It's no longer a community; it's a catwalk. And I am done.

I've matured, and don't I know it. Men my age look through me now, drooling over girls in Shein G-string bikinis. The only dates I get asked on are by boys with MILF fetishes who were barely out of nappies when I was in my thirties.

Melbourne has been calling my name for decades and I'm off. I've found a beautiful unit with a large balcony and underground parking. It's a two bedder right in the heart of the hustle and bustle of South Yarra – and less than half what I pay in Bondi.

Fancy that. I can live in a nice place and have money left over to buy nice things.

Now I'm surrounded by a classy, more sophisticated crowd. A bit older and more creative, they thrive on deeper connections, not calorie-deficit lifestyles, protein shakes and collagen powder.

Melbourne doesn't care much for reality stars or influencers pretending to journal while hogging seats at a café; it's too busy being naturally cool, a city with depth and soul, espresso bars tucked in art-covered laneways, candlelit bistros and bustling bars that are open until the wee hours. There are no lockout laws in this state.

A city where you can afford to live in a good area, where it doesn't care you're not 25, and where a good coat turns more heads than white gym shorts with a scrunch bum.

And let's talk about the men: the dating scene is a breath of fresh air. Victorian men aren't desperate Peter Pans. They actually engage in the art of conversation. I've found being older isn't a turn-off here - sometimes it's preferred. The only thing a woman my age has to compete with is the MCG. I've had men approach me on Chapel Street, smile and say hello, even ask me for coffee (and coffee means coffee, not 'I'll come over to yours when I've finished at the gym'.)

But, oh, the weather, the weather! Won't you miss the weather?

No, the sun gives me pigmentation and I am sick to the back teeth of my ceiling leaking in the constant rain. Melbourne, by contrast, has seasons (and it actually rains less). Plus, isn't there's something comforting about slipping into a nice coat and walking by the Yarra River?

So, in short, why am I leaving? BecauseI'm not ashamed of growing older, but I am not prepared to live in a city that tries to convince me on a daily basis that I should be.

I don't need a new serum or another round of surgery to fit in. I don't need to punish myself at the gym just to compete with women who have youth on their side. And I certainly don't need to upgrade my activewear four times a year.

I've grown up, andI'm moving to where I am embraced and accepted, not excluded.

And I hate to say this - and I've left it to the absolute bitter end to make this point... but I'm not the only one who should be packing their bags.

There are so many women (and men) my age who are breaking their backs every day trying to keep up with a neighbourhood that considers 30 'over the hill'.

You know who they are - I daren't say their names for fear of the pitchforks coming out, but you might call them 'the usual suspects'.

The Newsreader. The Ex-Beauty Queen. The Designer. The Tabloid Favourite. The Radio Star. The Former Playboy. The Party Girl.

The list goes on and on and on.

Maybe they enjoy seeing their crush waltz into the gym at 6am holding hands with a 20-year-old. Perhaps the novelty of paying a 'healer' $150 to sit in a tub of iced water hasn't worn off yet. Maybe they just really, really, really like the weather.

But for me, I'm done.

Thanks for the memories, Bondi, but it's time to say goodbye.