So, you know you're from Orange when ...

The Hood, the Parky, the Nob, the Gladdy, the Western. Gibberish to out-of-towners, but easily understandable venues for a cold one in Orange. In any other town the phrase "I'm going to the Ho" would raise some questions.

In Orange, we don't like to walk more than 20 metres from the car to the shop. We will do a lap of the block - from roundabout to roundabout - until we find a car park right out front. If there is still no park... we'll just keep lapping.

Despite dealing with roundabouts, double-lane roads and every type of intersection known to humankind, everyone in Orange is a terrible driver, suffering indicator deficiencies and a fundamental lack of understanding when it comes to road rules and common courtesy. Except you - you're awesome.

It might be -5 degrees with tenpin bowling ball-sized hail stones falling from the heavens, but conventional Orange wisdom is that winter used to be bleaker. Suck it up and look forward to your own twilight years when you can tell youngsters about how cold July was when you were growing up.

You can see them every weekend, clutching coffees with jittery hands and attempting to read brunch menus through bleary eyes. Offer no sympathy because none is deservedhey were at the Royal last night.

There was at least one night when the P-plater you went back and forth along Summer Street with the wind in your hair, singing the words to a crap song at the top of your lungs. You don't have to admit it in public, but you know it's true. For the curious, the usual congregation point is the road-side end of the Summer Centre car park.

If it's a rite of passage for Orange toddlers to feed the ducks in Cook Park then it's part and parcel of an Orange adult's life to almost thin the flock when driving nearby. Nothing says Orange like a last-second swerve to avoid a mother duck leading a train of ducklings on one of their regular excursions over Kite, Sampson or Summer streets.

A granny with a loaded shopping cart. Some schoolkids distracted by their conversation. A mother struggling to keep her sports uniform-clad children in a pack. It's not that the crossing is over-used, it's that just as one pedestrian has finished crossing, another appears out of thin air. Grip the steering wheel extra hard and keep the expletives to a low roar.

If you head east from Orange on a bright winter's morning you'll soon reach the top of The Rocks, only to be greeted by an enormous fog cloud. Descending into the grey mist, the blue skies becoming distant in your rear-view mirror, the obvious thought hits you: how anyone could live in Bathurst?

Cudal becomes Cuddle, Canowindra becomes Can-o-win-dra. Eugowra? Forget about it.

There's a cafe on almost every corner in Orange, with a new one springing up every five minutes, but one thing stays the same: the clientele. MAMIL'S - Middle Aged Men In Lycra - love their foamy lattes.

It's no secret the roads in Orange are terrible. As soon as mother nature throws down a spit, the earth opens and cars are swallowed. You can spot the town's mechanics who specialise in suspension replacements by the smiles on their faces and the wads of cash in their pockets.

I know we covered Orange drivers earlier, but a general lack of knowledge of roundabout rules is worth special mention. Turning right from the left lane is your God-given right. If you don't feel like indicating to mark your chosen exit, no one can make you. Giving way? That's giving up. Good thing there's only about 2000 roundabouts in the city ...

There's no need to stress about colour coordination when your pyjamas already come as a matching pair. While some people might classify pyjamas as something you only wear at home, in Orange they're considered outerwear no matter where you go. Fluffy slippers or ugg boots are also essential.