Back in the dark days of December, 2006 I was working late at night in Dublin when the phone rang. It was an old friend and colleague that I had worked with in Singapore six years previously. I met him whenever I passed through that city on my regular visits to the Southern Hemisphere and he knew how much I loved the Antipodes. We exchanged Christmas best wishes and then he asked if I would be interested in a job in Melbourne.
At the time, my life was in a
rut. I was 41 and single, stuck in traffic most days on the way to work, with
the wind screen wipers waving at me like a mocking troll reminding me of how
miserable my life was.
I said I’d consider the offer
over Christmas. At the time, I worked in a job that had access to American subprime
data, which meant I could see the storm coming and that Ireland was in the eye
of it.
I had been to Australia and New
Zealand many times in the preceding years and had always enjoyed the laid-back
lifestyle. So, in truth, it was an easy decision. It was a chance to start
again and start another chapter in this kitchen sink drama that is my life.
Living somewhere and spending
time on holiday there are very different things, of course. It rains in the
Southern Hemisphere too and you still have to get up and go to work in what are
often stressful or boring days oiling the wheels of capitalism.
But generally, I would say that
it was the correct decision. I was born
with the gift of a curious mind and a need to search for the light the shines
beyond those woods, so that I can see what makes it shine.
I met my charming wife who
brought my beautiful daughter into the world, so my life certainly got the kick
start it needed.
When I arrived in Australia, it
filled my bucket of wonder. I discovered AFL, Tim Tams, Carlton Bitter and
Chicken Parma. However, having lived there for seven years, the feeling of
being on holiday had long faded. Living in the sun is one of the main
attractions of a life in Oz. But when that
sun would fry an egg and burn all your bodily extremities to a crisp, then it’s
not too attractive.
Since we moved to New Zealand in
2015, I’ve visited Australia regularly. Either to Melbourne to watch my beloved
Carlton get smashed at footy, or to Sydney to spend Christmas with my sister.
Longer holidays have been spent
in Europe or Fiji. It’s taken us ten years to realise that a perfect holiday
destination sits just across the ditch in Australia.
We have rectified that this week
with a trip to the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. The sun is shining, the beers
are cold and Chicken Parmas are as tasty as I remember. I’ve been to Queensland
twice before. The first time was in 1997 when I first visited Australia and
spent the week in the teeth of a cyclone. That was an epic trip that will live
long in my memory.
My second trip was to Brisbane to
sit an English language test as part of my Australian residency application.
Readers of this blog may be surprised to hear that I passed. I then travelled
up the coast to visit my in-laws who were staying on the Sunshine Coast. I
hired a car at the airport. This is usually a soulless experience as you get
handed the keys to a bland saloon. They obviously think differently in
Queensland as I drove off in a purple Holden Commodore with an engine that
wouldn’t have been out of place in a formula one car.
Both trips left me with the
impression that Queenslanders are different to other Australians. Brasher, more
self-confident and wary of outsiders.
I had forgotten all this in my
ten years in New Zealand. Kiwis are polite, self-effacing and easy going. That
had lulled me into a false sense of security.
On my first day here, I was
dispatched to the Off License to procure a bag of ice, for that evening’s Gin
and Tonic extravaganza. I searched the store for ice to no avail and with the new found confidence I have discovered from
turning sixty and generally not giving a toss, I approached the guy behind the
counter.
“Do you sell ice?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s in that massive
fuckin’ fridge outside that you passed on your way in.”
“Right” I said. “Can I pay now
and then pick it up on the way out?”
He looked at me as though I’d
farted.
“That’s what most people do”, he
said with a withering look.
For some reason, I felt the need
to ask another question, as though the transaction required another enquiry.
“Is it fresh or salt ice?” I
asked. I was on holiday with my wife’s family and they would have never let me
forget the time I brought home salt ice for their evening libations.
His eyes narrowed and he placed
his palms firmly on the counter.
“Fresh ice is the only fuckin ice
I’ve ever heard of”.
I was taken aback and searched my
mind for a zinging retort. But none came.
“I live in New Zealand”, I
ventured. “And there you can buy fresh ice or salt ice. “
“That must be why they are shit
at cricket” he said as he handed me my beer.
I was stumped; I had no reply to
that staggering connection of ice and cricket.
I stopped in the doorway on my
way out and turned to him.
“I wouldn’t say you are the
biggest prick in the world. But you had better hope that the guy who is the
biggest prick doesn’t die soon”.
I didn’t say that last piece. I’m
sixty but still not confident enough to say what’s going through my mind.