Life in Australia - a homage to clutter

13 February 2006

(Or "we never do fly off to Rome on a moment's notice".)

In hindsight, the last few years of my life in Australia were characterised by not making the most of opportunities. I guess the rule is, when you work a lot, you have no time to go out, and when you don't you can't afford to. But somehow, with my business and my relationship choices, I got to experience being both poor and overworked.

When I finally got some more money, how did I spent it? On protein bars, DVDs and impulse shopping. Items I didn't need.

It started with Ikea, when I thought I'd met "the one" and we moved into a dump. I don't know if you'd called it nesting, perhaps it was simply trying to create a little comfort in my life. All I knew is I'd never bought a new piece of furniture, thanks to my pack rat mother and her passion for auctions, fetes, sales and op-shops. She collected and discarded with equal enthusiasm. I was always being offered doileys, towels, mismatched crockery sets, boxes of books, slightly chipped furniture that my cousin left behind when she went to India, that sort of thing. I'd only ever bought a desk and bookshelves - sigh! I'm a professional communicator, so anything about words gets me all gooey.

But in our one-bedroom flat, with its newly-painted concrete floors, and no built-in anything, space became an issue. My parents went wandering around Clifton Hill on hard rubbish day and came back with a pine kitchen cabinet. After Dad affixed a black melamine surface to it, it became the mainstay of the kitchen, and the only reaon why I didn't have to chop vegetables on the floor. The stove didn't work either, so I bought one at a garage sale for $20 AUD. Miraculously it worked, and gradually this home of sorts became a little more livable. My cousin donated two lounge suites to turn my bookshop cafe into a cosy space, and Dad began constructing bookshelves. Somehow, the bookshop that I impetuously decided to start to support myself and my partner while I worked towards that big break in radio, took shape.


A keen passion for government handouts, and the knowledge that most small businesses fail within the first year, led me to apply for the New Enterprise Initiative Scheme (NEIS). I'd been unemployed for less than a week when I was accepted. As we'd already signed the lease, the only course available within the required timeframe was in Dandenong - three hours by public transport, or a horrendous 90 minute drive. Mostly I took the train, at least I could read and relax.



NEIS offers a stipend while you set up the business, training in the form of a six-week small business management course, and mentoring. Theoretically it offered mentoring, at least. We opened, and I discovered pretty early on exactly how much I hated retail. The only good thing was my yoga classes over the road, and friends dropping in.

It's difficult to write about this time in my life, as I have never felt so trapped. Trapped in a house, a job, a relationship, with a constant barrage of eccentric, stingy customers. Even the contact with the customers I liked, of whom there were many, wore me out. But then there was Ikea, so life had its breezy moments. My destiny as a writer on hold - I was just too damn tired - I set out to create a little style in our limited living space. Entering the portals of the newly opened Richmond Ikea (the largest store in the Southern Hemisphere), I discovered a new passion for new household items.

After the first day, when I got lost and was only revived by a rare beef and potato salad and bottomless lemonade, I became a smarter shopper. At least I could find the way out. I invested in the Sten, build-your-own shelves, and a similarly groovily named loft double bed. But the bed was so wobbly it gave me vertigo and freaked the cat out. It's no longer available - thank "God"!

By the third visit, I was started to run out of things to buy. But the neatness of the place, perfectly groomed room after room, was drawing me into a vortex of homogenated desire. Was it OK just to go to the cafeteria? Aren't people supposed to hate things like that? But when there's too much clutter in your, too many random emotional encounters, the sterility of a cafeteria and the predictability of its multinational food becomes a comfort. Something that's not available to me these days. It's time to talk about "The Comfort of Franchises".