A snapshot of my Friday night:
I am tired after two full days back at work. I crouch halfway up the stairs on my hands and knees, my right ankle in a cast. I am watching my cat eat her own vomit.
“Please, go right ahead,” I vocalise. “Don’t let me disturb you. Eat ALL of it.”
I spend five minutes crouched on the stairs and waiting, because if she eats all of it then I won’t have to crawl the rest of the way up there.
Having a broken ankle is tough work.
I know I was in Melbourne only a few short weeks ago, but I returned again quickly for a very good reason: the wedding of two beautiful long-time friends. Our group of friends (the original posse I was a member of while discovering who I was as an adult) flew in from right along the east coast, from Brisbane to Hobart, in order for a reunion and party weekend of epic proportions. Most of us FIFO guests organised to bunk in together in Airbnb accommodation, in order to spend as much time as possible in each other’s company. These are friendships that will last my entire lifetime and I miss these people fiercely on a regular basis.
However, as much as I want to wax on about my beautiful friends, this post is for whinging instead. I’m almost thirty years old and I’ve finally broken a bone, hooray! Except not hooray. And possibly even maybe no I haven’t. The joy of injuries! At the least, I have a grade 3 (“severe”) ankle sprain (aka a torn ligament). There’s a small chip of bone that’s come away, too, and at the most there could also be a hairline fracture in there too, but I won’t find that out until Monday’s CT scan (over a fortnight after my original injury, no big deal or anything).
I mention both the Melbourne wedding and the injury because the injury happened directly after the wedding. Thankfully not DURING the wedding! But literally directly after the wedding. I suppose it’s a half-decent story for the future:
When I started quite seriously thinking about moving away from Brisbane, there were two cities that were true contenders: Hobart (clearly the eventual victor for me) and Melbourne.
Everyone moves to Melbourne. Why? The answer is simple: Melbourne is wonderful. I grew up with starry-eyed notions of Melbourne and its street art and cafe culture and ample music gigs (EVERYONE plays in Melbourne). I think I was sixteen when I first decided I would live in Melbourne one day. But years passed, and then some more years, and the urge to live in Melbourne had somehow faded for me by the time I was ready to leave Brisbane.
Yet, I still love Melbourne. I think I will always love Melbourne, unless something terribly and personally tragic happens to me in Melbourne. I think I have been to Melbourne at least once every year since 2005, and I will more than likely continue the trend of spending my Australian playtime holidays in Melbourne. What I’ve realised about Melbourne lately is that I am a bit in love with the idea of keeping Melbourne as just that—a holiday destination.
Every time I go to Melbourne, I’ve already got a list prepared. The list is full of new things to see and old things to revisit. I try to see as many friends as I can while I’m in town, at either these new or old things, but each year there are more friends to visit and the challenge is greater. Then there are the adventures I stumble across while I’m town, too.
I was back in Melbourne for a week or so at the end of October, just for a break. This was actually my second 2013 Melbourne adventure—I spent my birthday in Melbourne at the other end of the year, when the weather was warm and the air conditioning was on. It was fun to run around at this time of year in my big green coat.