Child of the 70s

I remember skyping with my parents in the final days of my Euro trip last year, discussing what I was going to do when I got home (uncertain), whether I would try and get the same sort of job again (unlikely),and more importantly, where I was going to live.

This last was a question I was not keen to grapple with. I am blessed with parents who not only managed to bring me up compassionately and firmly, but possess the asbestos ears necessary to put up with my ranting whenever the television is on. 

But after 12 months of total freedom gallivanting around the continent, careless, fancy-free and, all too often inebriated, my Mum saying “We expect you will move back in with us for at least six months” was not exactly enthusing.

I swore black and blue I would be out of home and back into my own pad by February. What I had not calculated for was insane competition for housing in Melbourne.
On more than one occasion the tenants doubled up inspection times for us potential housemates, resulting in two or more of us standing as far apart from each other as possible, eyeing each other off and waiting for sudden movements. Had one of the interviewers yelled “FIGHT!” suddenly, things could have gotten out of hand...

And if I’m honest, I also didn’t count on the incredible convenience of living at home. The day to day existence of a backpacker, while thrilling, interesting and filled with fun, also involves a fair amount of not so much ‘living’ as ‘surviving’.
You must rely on nothing. NOTHING. Having no place to sleep, nothing to eat and no contacts for a hundred miles is a serious possibility, and one you must plan for.
So suddenly having meals ready for you when you come home, laundry and dishes that do themselves (!!!) and more than 3 pairs of underwear available to you, makes for a pretty attractive combination.

So it wasn’t really all that surprising that April rolled around with me still in the house.

But no more!

As of last Friday, I now not only occupy the master bedroom and balcony of a swingin’ Carlton apartment, but am also officially Living In The Seventies.

My house has a Sauna.

You read that right. A freakin’ sauna people! And as of 2 hours ago, thanks to an unfortunate episode of “I wonder what this button does”, we also know we have a spa in the bathtub.

As if a sauna/spa combo in the middle of the second floor wasn’t enough confirmation this joint was built in the seventies (and probably by a Swede), there are a couple of other give-aways. For one thing, everything is beige. The carpet, the walls, the ceiling (with its ever fashionable spray-on-concrete-with-gravel-texture look), even the doors and curtains. ‘Tis a beige old house.

We’re doing our best to defy the prevailing mood with a gay couple, a German guy and a Spanish girl and a lot of decorations I’m assured are ‘Retro’. (Silly me, here I was thinking they were ‘Salvation Army’)

The move in was one hell of a busy day, not helped by my inevitable episode of worst-possible-situation-vagueness. I load everything into my car (a depressingly or inspirationally small amount of gear, depending on how you think about it) and drove into town to the new house.

Now every time I’ve told someone this story, I ask them “What’s the stupidest thing I could have done at this point?”. Frankly, some of the suggestions I had back were utterly terrifying.

I left the damn keys at my parent’s place. Not, as I’ve had suggested to me, “Had the trailer come off on the freeway, killing a family of three”. You guys worry me sometimes.

So a sweet, sweet sauna & spa housewarming party is coming very soon! Stay tuned.

What cheer!

Gordon