I’m ensconced in a brown leather chesterfield in one of Sydney’s oldest private clubs. The very words conjure 19th-century alpha masculinity: cigar smoke spiralling in the air, glasses of brandy swirling in giant snifters, the “pock” of a billiard cue in the background. One would expect to discover a room full of men, partying like it’s 1899. Instead, I’m chatting to several other females enjoying the historic space their membership gives them access to.
My father, John – who graduated alongside Germaine Greer, picketing in the 1960s for women to be able to drink in the same bar at his local pub – sponsored me for membership at his club, the Royal Automobile Club of Australia, and delighted in the ritual of passing the baton from father to daughter.
Established in 1903 as a motoring club, the affectionately dubbed RACA has its roots in a passion for cars. I had always loved visiting Dad there for lunch, kicking it old-school in the hushed atmosphere of
