By Sally Beerworth

I may be the only person who can claim that a chicken nugget has actually improved my health, because it was over lunch at the Werri Beach Fish & Chip Shop that I decided to move to Gerringong.

In fairness, I had been contemplating “going coastal” for some years but had yet to find a town that would make interacting with Australia Post’s mail redirection team worth the headache.

Living in Sydney meant being in a small (very overpriced) apartment that came with a view of the communal washing line.

I had begun finding it increasingly hard to look my neighbour in the eye, knowing he had a penchant for The Incredible Hulk underpants.

I also got far less pleasure than the woman upstairs everytime she picked up a bloke from the local pub.

So, when I pulled the car off the Princes Highway in early December last year, I stumbled across a town I didn’t want to leave.

If I could have, I would have had everything I owned shipped down the coast, there and then.

Had it not been for fearing the wrath of my overindulged cat who was waiting at home for me, I would never have returned home to Sydney.

I’m quite sure I’m not the only visitor to Gerringong, who has had this reaction, but for me it wasn’t just the view of the headland from the beach, or the artificial colours in my nuggets clouding my judgement.

It was that while I was walking along the beach, three people, three complete strangers, had said, ‘hello’ as I walked past them.

The only time I recall a stranger talking to me in Sydney, was when I walked down the street one day, wearing half a meat pie on my face.

And, I’m fairly confident that the passerby in question was just checking whether or not I was OK not being unaccompanied by a carer.

Days later, I rented a house in Gerringong, sight unseen.

This is the only way I can explain to people why I was comfortable with the abundance of cream-coloured shag pile carpet in my new abode.

Frankly, the poor decisions of the 1970s were, in my eyes, a small price to pay for a house that was only several hundred metres from my purveyor of nuggets.

I gently pointed out to the real estate agent that it was indeed an oversight that the house’s close proximity to saturated fats was left out of the property’s marketing.

She wasn’t the only participant in the conversation that walked away somewhat concerned.

I spent much of our interaction trying to work out why she was inserting ‘Gezza’ into every second sentence.

It wasn’t until I walked past the local pizza shop the following week, that I realised that this word, slash throat clearing sound, was the affectionate name given to the town by locals.

This nickname is perhaps the only thing I would change about my new home - the air is fresher, the water’s cleaner, the pace is slower and the nuggets are life changing.