Well, I’m back from sunny Melbourne, where the weather was surprisingly pleasant, as long as you stood directly in the sun and out of the wind. It was warm enough to walk around in a T-shirt, though I suspect the locals would have considered it an act of bravery.
I was there for four and a bit days, spending the first two clearing out my storage shed, a task I’d been putting off for the past few years.
Things started off promisingly when I arrived at the storage facility and discovered I had the wrong key. Not wanting to waste a perfectly good day, I ordered an Uber to the nearest Bunnings, purchased a pair of bolt cutters, and ordered another Uber back to the shed, where I proceeded to break into my own belongings.
Growing up as a houso in Campbelltown has its advantages. Some people learn piano or a second language; I learnt that most locks are simply a suggestion if you have the right equipment.
Once inside, I was confronted by considerably more stuff than I remembered owning, all covered in a thick layer of dust. None of it had been important enough to retrieve in the time I’d spent on the road, yet apparently important enough to warrant thousands of dollars in storage fees.
There were boxes I didn’t recognise, things I’d forgotten I’d bought. It was like rummaging through the belongings of a deceased relative, with a very expensive motorcycle habit.
Eventually, I located the keys to the motorbikes, wheeled them out into the daylight, and prepared them for transport. As luck would have it, the transport company rang to say they could collect them that afternoon. This was a small miracle, considering the rest of the day had involved industrial-strength burglary and an alarming amount of dust.
The following morning, I was up early to collect a rental van, and began the process of disposing of everything else.
Two trips to the tip later, the storage shed was empty.
Just like that, I was saving myself $5,500 a year.
At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I threw away thousands of dollars’ worth of motorcycle gear, tools and other possessions that had once seemed absolutely essential to my happiness.
There’s something deeply unsettling about paying to store things for years, only to pay someone else to let you throw them away. It’s a financial strategy that I suspect isn’t covered in many investment seminars.
Still, that’s one chapter of my life officially over.
The bikes should arrive in Cairns towards the end of the month, and with a bit of luck, I’ll have them back on the road before too long. Of course, having disposed of most of my riding gear, I’ll now need to buy some more.
Perhaps my former employer, AMX, will take pity on me and offer a decent discount. After all, I’ve just demonstrated an extraordinary ability to make poor motorcycle-related financial decisions.
With the hard work out of the way, I spent the next couple of days catching up with friends and exploring Melbourne’s art scene, determined to get my annual dose of “culture” before returning to Queensland, where cultural activities generally involve a fishing rod or a schooner.
I visited a few galleries, drank far too much coffee, and generally enjoyed being back in a city where people wear black without being mistaken for hospitality staff.
Naturally, I made a pilgrimage to my favourite bar, Fiftyfive, although it will forever be e-55 to me. I’ve been going there since I first arrived in Melbourne in 2002, and remarkably, very little has changed.
There’s something comforting about a bar that refuses to reinvent itself every six months. The atmosphere and surroundings are the same, and maybe a few of the same people are sitting there as they were when I first walked in 24 years ago.
I didn’t take many photographs during the trip. In fact, hardly any at all, which is unusual for someone who generally carries a camera around as though he’s been commissioned by Life.com Magazine.
I did, however, receive an unsolicited fashion critique from a homeless man in one of Melbourne’s graffiti-covered laneways.
“Nice shoes, bro, but they don’t go with those jeans.”
I stopped and looked down at my outfit.
Now, I’m not one to judge another person’s circumstances, but there’s something particularly devastating about having your fashion sense questioned by a man whose wardrobe is largely dependent on the generosity of strangers and the contents of a community clothing bin.
And the worst part?
He was probably right.
I’d spent the morning feeling quite pleased with myself, wandering around Melbourne looking like someone who might know a thing or two about art, architecture and a good espresso. One passing comment and suddenly I was a middle-aged man without a fashion sense.
Not gonna lie, it hurt.
They were my favourite jeans.
Anyway, I’m back in Cairns now, where fashion is considerably less complicated. Shorts, thongs and a shirt that doesn’t show sweat stains are generally considered acceptable attire for almost any occasion.
The moment I stepped off the plane, the humidity wrapped around me like a warm, damp blanket that someone forgot to put through the spin cycle.
Ah, home.
The storage shed is gone, the bikes are on their way, and I’ve managed to dispose of several thousand dollars’ worth of possessions while convincing myself I’ve saved money.
All in all, a successful trip.
And if anyone wants a pair of jeans that apparently don’t go with anything, you know where to find me.
Leave a Reply