A few years ago after suffering a messy time in Sydney I made the decision that I should get out of town, a ‘tree-change’ I think they call it. (If I had half a squillion more it might have been a ‘sea change’).
I remember that at aged 10 my Sister and I were given unerringly accurate information by a Gypsy fortune-teller. (Women who can predict the gender of an unborn child by the direction of spin of a magnified needle.) Of course the information included something about living long and prospering and retiring to a stone cottage in the country surrounded by a lifetime of mementos.
Well, I haven’t prospered and have yet to experience the end of life but I am in the country preparing to build something. Well two out of three is not quite a complete failure. The box loads of stuff which my sister still insists is useless rubbish have sort of followed me and stored somewhere between Sydney and Ballarat.(I’d had a few too many wines to recall exactly where)
Back to the main plot. Undecided as to what county or what country I should settle for retirement I began a series of nomadic travels through the Eastern States directed by the Real Estate pages.
North to Queensland. I had acquired a paltry sum from a settlement years prior which I would invest in land, I had a slightly thicker paltry sum sitting in Super waiting for me to call out for it. Queensland was soon ruled out when I realised that richer and older grey nomads were heading to the land of price tags in Japanese where tanning saloons were cheap and plentiful (you had to get a tan before you went out to get a tan), getting Plastic Surgery was as easy as joining a Book Club and nobody noticed if you applied make-up with a brickies trowel. Apparently having lips like a Grouper and eyelashes that flicked flies away is very fashionable in Sufferers Paradise.
The only exception would be ‘Schoolies Week’ when people 50 years younger than the average age of the population come to town to stir up the ‘wrinklies’. It is pretty much the norm on Queensland’s more affluent coastline to see the RACQ towing electric cars and surf-lifesavers, who must have guts of iron, giving mouth to mouth to beached whales in Speedo’s.
A second good reason to rule out Queensland came in the form of a television documentary about Cane Toads. I believe that dust would be preferable to squishy feet whenever I thonged around outside the house. I’m not a golfer so using them for practice shots was out of the question too.
So back to New South Wales. The State of Excitement which some call it that requires you to have a six-figure income to qualify as working-class.
Except for a stint in Puckapunyal in Victoria (where I caught Mumps after which I vowed never to come south of the Murray again) the state of NSW has always been my home. When I looked around the State I was not inclined to spend what little I had on 3 acres, 10Km from a deserted town (which made Linton, Victoria look like Flinders Street Station) midway between Bourke and Broken Hill. The town, who I won’t identify to avoid them any embarrassment was that big it had a converted petrol station now called ‘Hotel, General Store, Post Office, Take-away and Massage Parlour and a Pool Table where the Pumps used to be.
Even though, unlike Macarthur I vowed never to return to Victoria, I had mellowed after 40 years and was encouraged by the size of my bank statement. Money obviously is more powerful than Mumps.
So three circumnavigations of Brumby Country and here I am, a city slicker from north of the Murray, full of high fallutin’ big smoke ideas, frustrated with ‘straight away’ meaning within a week or so, looking for something to get involved in (hence this thing) and slowly, very slowly beginning to lay back and enjoy things just washing over me and not drowning in useless trivia (except for this column). I thought I was a ‘recluse’ (52 out of 60 on the introversion scale) until I came here. Now it appears I’m one of the more extroverted residents by comparison. Someone has to get a life, I hope it’s me.
I remember that at aged 10 my Sister and I were given unerringly accurate information by a Gypsy fortune-teller. (Women who can predict the gender of an unborn child by the direction of spin of a magnified needle.) Of course the information included something about living long and prospering and retiring to a stone cottage in the country surrounded by a lifetime of mementos.
Well, I haven’t prospered and have yet to experience the end of life but I am in the country preparing to build something. Well two out of three is not quite a complete failure. The box loads of stuff which my sister still insists is useless rubbish have sort of followed me and stored somewhere between Sydney and Ballarat.(I’d had a few too many wines to recall exactly where)
Back to the main plot. Undecided as to what county or what country I should settle for retirement I began a series of nomadic travels through the Eastern States directed by the Real Estate pages.
North to Queensland. I had acquired a paltry sum from a settlement years prior which I would invest in land, I had a slightly thicker paltry sum sitting in Super waiting for me to call out for it. Queensland was soon ruled out when I realised that richer and older grey nomads were heading to the land of price tags in Japanese where tanning saloons were cheap and plentiful (you had to get a tan before you went out to get a tan), getting Plastic Surgery was as easy as joining a Book Club and nobody noticed if you applied make-up with a brickies trowel. Apparently having lips like a Grouper and eyelashes that flicked flies away is very fashionable in Sufferers Paradise.
The only exception would be ‘Schoolies Week’ when people 50 years younger than the average age of the population come to town to stir up the ‘wrinklies’. It is pretty much the norm on Queensland’s more affluent coastline to see the RACQ towing electric cars and surf-lifesavers, who must have guts of iron, giving mouth to mouth to beached whales in Speedo’s.
A second good reason to rule out Queensland came in the form of a television documentary about Cane Toads. I believe that dust would be preferable to squishy feet whenever I thonged around outside the house. I’m not a golfer so using them for practice shots was out of the question too.
So back to New South Wales. The State of Excitement which some call it that requires you to have a six-figure income to qualify as working-class.
Except for a stint in Puckapunyal in Victoria (where I caught Mumps after which I vowed never to come south of the Murray again) the state of NSW has always been my home. When I looked around the State I was not inclined to spend what little I had on 3 acres, 10Km from a deserted town (which made Linton, Victoria look like Flinders Street Station) midway between Bourke and Broken Hill. The town, who I won’t identify to avoid them any embarrassment was that big it had a converted petrol station now called ‘Hotel, General Store, Post Office, Take-away and Massage Parlour and a Pool Table where the Pumps used to be.
Even though, unlike Macarthur I vowed never to return to Victoria, I had mellowed after 40 years and was encouraged by the size of my bank statement. Money obviously is more powerful than Mumps.
So three circumnavigations of Brumby Country and here I am, a city slicker from north of the Murray, full of high fallutin’ big smoke ideas, frustrated with ‘straight away’ meaning within a week or so, looking for something to get involved in (hence this thing) and slowly, very slowly beginning to lay back and enjoy things just washing over me and not drowning in useless trivia (except for this column). I thought I was a ‘recluse’ (52 out of 60 on the introversion scale) until I came here. Now it appears I’m one of the more extroverted residents by comparison. Someone has to get a life, I hope it’s me.
