Upwardly mobile

I've been cruising real estate websites while I've been off work (the back injury is healing...so is the throat infection that I got from hanging out in doctor's waiting rooms too much). Part of this was looking for a friend who is genuinely in the market for a new house. The other part was me wondering if there was anywhere in Melbourne I could afford to buy a place. Turns out that the answer is no.

Drives me a little crazy to know that although searching all of Melbourne in my price bracket returns 8 pages of hits, not one of them is suitable. I don't qualify to live in student only developments - and my God, there are a hell of a lot of them, fully furnished one room and a toilet style - nor am I in the market for a car parking space in the city. So I started looking a little further afield. And then I found it.

I found a nice looking block of land on the Melbourne side of Bendigo. Or was it Ballarat? I can't remember now, and it's not vital. Either way, it's about an hour from where I live and work now. A little more research, and I found that I can build on the block for about my price limit. And building in a regional area, I could even get a bigger grant from the government. So there you have it. About an hour out of Melbourne, I can afford a house. Hell, I could maybe even save a little, based on what the mortgage repayments would most likely be, assuming I was earning the same as I am now.

But there's the rub.

There are next to no jobs listed in the country that I qualify for. Nor are there people that I know. Sure, I have ideas on how to meet people when moving to another place now. But do I really want to do it, just so I can have my own place? Surely there is a better solution out there...Trouble is, I have no idea what the hell it is. As a single person who doesn't work in a well-paid industry (or at least for a generous employer), and someone who hasn't managed to save due to a debilitating travel habit, I have no deposit saved. Property prices in Melbourne have risen over 100% in the past decade and, although the market has slowed, are still continuing to go up. So where does that leave me? Renting, that's where it leaves me. Until I decide that the country life is for me. Then? Well, we'll see...

The best advice

I'm going slightly stir crazy at the moment. My back is still not all it should be, so I'm hemmed into my flat quite efficiently. And everybody wishing me well and offering help is actually driving me to distraction.

One of the things I've been learning while I've been if not laid up then at least slowed down, is that back pain is one of those things that everybody either has a cure for, or can recommend someone who does. So much of it is contradictory that it's of next to now use, but people feel obliged to offer up their kernels of knowledge, and I have to accept all of them like a grateful beggar on the street. I might be drawing things in a fairly harsh light here, but I've had so many recommendations of good chiropractors, osteopaths, physiotherapists, doctors, acupuncturists and masseurs that if I took them all up not only would I not be able to move even as much as I can now, I'd be getting shuttled around like a tennis ball, shunted from end to end, as I ran to all the appointments.

It's not that I'm not ungrateful. I do understand that it was concern that drove my grandmother to offer to call my aunt if there was anything wrong with me (although why I wouldn't just solve all the problems by calling my mother, who is not only a damn site closer, but able to drive, I have yet to figure. At the very least, surely I'd just call the aunt directly, if needed?). But folks, really, there's a limit to how much of this I can take, and I've about reached it. Thank god I've been a little more mobile today, even if it was just a grandmotherly shuffle. There's a light shining at the end of the tunnel. And best of all, it's not offering me any bloody advice.

The thing

I have discovered some of the words that you would never really think about, but don't want to hear from your doctor. Don't jump to conclusions, it's not anything deadly. Just not what you want to hear.

I might have mentioned that I've messed up my back. It's still not better. And I took a day off work yesterday to go and see a doctor about it. When I described what was going on, his first words, before he'd examined me, were "how much sick leave do you have?" Not reassuring in the slightest. He then proceeded to cause more pain in my back than anyone has any right to do just by poking someone, and getting paid for the privilege.

But there you have it. I'm now standing, with my computer propped on my sewing box, instead of resting on the desk, and trying to avoid twisting. I'm off work until at least tomorrow, and I'm promised another bout with Doctor Bedside-Manner tomorrow. Meanwhile, my mother, who has back problems of her own, is worried silly, largely because of my grandmother hinting that my bad back is the result of a genetic mutation inherited from my mother, and offering to do everything from my grocery shopping to my dishes. As tempting as it is to let her do the lot, I realise that any inches given will be taken, run with, and multiplied until she is "just popping in" all the time. Thanks, but no.

So I'm trying not to let it stop me from doing too much. For instance, tonight, I'm off to a comedy show. I'm just planning on getting an aisle seat so I can stand up as necessary, that's all. I'm hoping laughter is the antidote for the words you don't want to hear when you think you're just going to be given some exercises to strengthen your back, because sick leave should never be used when you're actually sick. Such a waste...

The Art of Distraction

I've stuffed my back again. I must be getting old, it's happening more often than it used to. Now, something as simple as sleeping can have pain shooting down the back of my legs and radiating up to my shoulders. I've been using it as an excuse to avoid doing dishes (although interestingly, the number of dishes used seems to have multiplied in inverse proportion with my will to clean them). That little half bend at the sink had me throwing in the towel, before it had wiped a single plate. Tonight, I felt that I ought to bite the bullet and get on with it, before I ran out of tea spoons. Funny how they're always the first things to go.

Of course, my will to do the dishes actually increased when I realised how much study I had waiting for me. Because I've taken the masochistic jump and enrolled in that teacher training course I mentioned way back. Part time, I should be able to teach in three years or less, depending on how soon I get myself to a point where I can quit work and study full time. So in around 5 years I should be standing in front of my own class, then. Pfft. Like it will ever happen...But either way, it inspired me to wash the dishes. And now the spasm that caused in my back has me propped carefully on the couch with a comfy cushion squashed in just the right spot while I recover once again.

Of course, all of this is not just a distraction from the lock on my spine. It's to distract me from the fact that, once again, I'm waiting for a seemingly nice boy to get in touch with me so we can meet up and see if we're as nice in person as we seem via email. I'm sweating on my inbox like I never did over results for study, even though I know the boy - let's call him Ernie - is pulling midnighters at work for a week or two and is therefore unlikely to contact me. Either that, or he's miffed about certain parallels with Ray Martin that I jokingly pointed out. Actually, thinking about it, I probably shouldn't have done that. Just like I shouldn't have started writing about him, because now I'm going to get all paranoid that I've done something stupid, yet again. I need a "Quick! Look over there!" distraction. But when you're in your own head, it's a little hard. So I think I might have to get back into some of the things I've been putting off. I think I have some movement in my back again, and an airer full of clothes is calling me. And my new flatmate (did I mention that I have a flatmate now? All part of the trying to get to a position to fund full time study plan...as an added bonus, she's hardly ever here and when she is, she keeps to her room. The perfect flatmate, in many respects) gets back from a holiday on Thursday, so best not have my underpants on display in the living room. I don't think we know each other well enough for that yet.

Right. Arse off couch. Here we go.

Bugger.

Oh well, was worth a shot.

My Kitchen Rules - or at least my scones do

Today is cold and miserable, in spite of the extra hour gained thanks to the end of daylight saving. So what better day to do some baking, I figured. Being without the classic baker's kitchen that my mother possesses (pantry always stocked with rations in case of siege; she could survive for a month on tinned food alone, without cooking a thing), I decided that scones were the order of the day, but they were a little bland for my taste. I figured I'd hit up my trusty friend google for some inspiration on variations, other than the usual cheesy scone, and boy did I open a minefield.

Turns out that the simple scone recipe I've been using since child hood (self raising flour, butter and milk - it doesn't get any easier) is not to be found anywhere online. Instead, there was a website boasting that it had an egg-free recipe - since when were eggs involved? - another with baking powder, eggs and cream, not to mention countless other twists. And that was just for the basic scone itself. I'd heard of a mix using plain flour and lemonade before (always looked down upon by my otherwise easygoing mother and grand mother, but favoured by the cooking-hater Nana), but never had I considered that there could possibly be so many ways to bake a scone. The humble scone, typically served with jam and cream, delicious any way you look at it (although not usually described as light and fluffy, as one American website had it...light and fluffy is no suitable vehicle for jam and cream, methinks, or at least in the proportions that I enjoy it).

So here I am...looking down the barrel of not finding a suitable variation on a classic because I got bogged down in the mire of what exactly is involved in the basic recipe. Who dared to mess with a classic, I ask you? Not me. I've got my milk, I've got my butter, I've got my flour. In about 20 minutes, I will also have my scones. Somewhat longer than that, and I might even fill in the pitiful few readers out there with an update on exactly what has kept me offline for about a month. But let's not be too rash. After all, baking waits for no man. Or woman. Or blog.