On Impending Ownership of Dirt in the Boonies

Everybody I know that has brought property has taken it in their stride. I have been feeling a little nervous. The bill from the conveyancer is due to roll in next week. The funds—that money I have worked so damn hard for—will leave my bank account destined for the vendor’s. Two weeks from today the paperwork will be signed, sealed and submitted and I will be the owner of a 2000-square-metres of land in the Murraylands. This is profound for me to ponder. I never thought I’d be doing this.

Years ago I thought my destiny had been decided. I was at university and working full-time and a career seemed like the right thing to do. Every couple of years I would be promoted, earning more money. I’d certainly move to bigger, nicer houses as my pay packet grew. Maybe I’d move interstate to a big city: Melbourne or Sydney. Eventually, as my heart changed, Melbourne or Sydney became Hobart or Launceston or Christchurch or Wellington. As my heart changed some more the whole idea of the career dissolved. The whole dream, or more truly, expectation, had lost its gleam. Now it was murky though translucent. By surprise the gleam had been stripped from the target and planted firmly in my mind. The possibilities were endless, something I had never realised.

As I sit here, a couple of weeks out from being a property owner, I feel comfortable with my decision. This isn’t me just playing some deterministic game. This is me embarking on what will be one of many great adventures.

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