The Road Home

I was going to write about the global financial crisis this week, but then I realised that I’m an accountant who has worked in the Financial Services industry for twenty years and I haven’t got a bloody clue what’s going on, so how I am expected to explain it to others. Anyway, I don’t know about you but I’m getting a bit bored with the whole thing. When you wake up to the news of another disastrous day on Wall Street for the umpteenth morning in a row, it kind of loses its dramatic impact. Cancer is a disaster, getting a letter from your first girlfriend saying her mother won’t let her see you anymore because of her upcoming exams is a disaster, Man United winning the treble in 1999 was a disaster. But rich people’s investments being worth less than they were yesterday, well that’s not even unfortunate.

Despite my profession, I’ve always had a carefree relationship with money. The truth is, I’ve never had it for long enough to develop an attachment. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the finer things in life that only money can buy, I’ve just always felt that I should own money and not the other way round. When asked why I stuck with a highly stressful job, I used to say that I had an expensive burger and chip habit to support. And this wasn’t too far from the truth. I ate my way through the Celtic Tiger, fur and all. As a result I stacked on about 15 kilos during my years in Dublin, as my body became a symbol for the bloated excess of modern Ireland. Unlike the Irish economy mine wasn’t looking like it would implode any time soon, so I’ve taken things into my own hands.

I’ve started walking home a couple of times a week, which is helping with the weight loss but also gives me a chance to throw the old Ipod on shuffle and to enjoy the spring evenings through the riverbanks and parks of this beautiful city. I start in Collins St in the central business district or CBD as it’s known. All Australian cities have to have a CBD, even if they have little or no business to transact. It’s downhill from there to the Yarra River which meanders like a brown snake towards the salt water of Port Phillip Bay. Tonight the rowers are out in force, pumping their narrow boats through the still waters in a blur of rippling muscles. I head over the bridge and onto St. Kilda road with its tree lined thoroughfare leading south towards the shore and my house. From here its about 10km home, but I’m emboldened by the memory of being 8 years old when the De La Salle brothers used to make us do 10 mile sponsored walks to raise money for the brothers alcohol and pornography fund. So if I could do that as an 8 year old in the sort of hob nailed boots that my mother used to make me wear, then this little jaunt should be no trouble at all. Of course, as an 8 year old, I wasn’t carrying a wallet, blackberry, mobile phone, Ipod and 15 kilos of excess weight.

The Arts centre comes up on my right with its sophisticated advertisements for upcoming ballets and symphonies. Sydney may have the Opera House, but Melbourne has the culture. When they built the centre, they must have stepped back and thought that it looked like a 1970s communist party headquarters because only that could explain the obvious afterthought that they stuck on top. I think they were going for an Eiffel Tower look, but they’ve ended up with something that I could only describe as a mobile phone mast, if that didn’t do a disservice to the architectural splendour of phone masts.

Down the road I come to the domain and the sweeping parklands that blanket the southern part of town. Directly ahead is the striking war memorial that stands sentry over the City and the rattle of trams passing domain interchange on their way to exotic locations like Toorak and Kooyong. The traffic gets quieter as the road widens and trees become bushier and more frequent and suddenly I can hear the music coming through my headphones. Every now and again the shuffle will throw up a classic from my innocent youth that I haven’t listened to in years and I find myself singing along to Cat Stephens or Gordon Lightfoot. Luckily all the other walkers are wired into their own personal entertainment and are oblivious to my tuneless warbling.

The impressive grounds of Wesley College come up on the left and I think of all my old friends in Wesley Hall in Dublin. I’m sure they will be glad to hear that the Methodists in Melbourne are keeping up the traditions of their Irish cousins. They also charge extortionist fees to educate the sons of the wealthy and privileged and to maintain the social order.

I turn right and head down towards Albert Park. Meatloaf has just started singing to me about how two out of three ain’t bad. My singing amuses a homeless person sitting outside a shelter and momentary embarrassment leads to a shared chuckle. I skirt the lake with its serious runners in lycra and wrap around shades and head for the open fields of the park. Chinese immigrants in counterfeit Arsenal football tops are playing 5 a side with jumpers for goal posts and large ladies in baggy tracksuits are being put through their paces by a sadist with a whistle. In between there are groups of twos and threes engaged in that great and pointless pastime of kicking an Aussie Rules football to each other.

The sight of all that physical exercise makes me tired but I know I’m nearly home. I brave it through Fitzroy St with its tempting take away smells and turn on to the esplanade above St Kilda beach. The sun is melting across the bay in reds and oranges and this spurs me on for the last kilometre. I make it home and head into I Carusi for a celebration Quattro Formaggi pizza. “You’re quiet tonight”, I said. She shrugged and said “global financial crisis, nobody wants to eat out until things settle down”. There’s no escaping it I guess but if you want a temporary respite then put your Ipod on and head out for a walk.