Burnt down churches in Melbourne Diaries

Someone in Melbourne is burning down churches, including the St James Church about 500m from where I live. Jogging past the gutted, caved in ruins yesterday afternoon I was reminded of World War 2 footage of Berlin following allied bombing and Russian shelling. Nobody was harmed in the church when it burnt, which is more than could be said about the place when it was still standing - St James was infamous place, a home for paedophiles and the site of numerous abuses. In recent years it has been shunned by many local Catholics. Three more churches have been torched since then, and at least two of those also have links to paedophile priests.

Over Easter my local suburb has an eerie quietness to it, as most residents are on holiday during the break - a skilled burglar could make his fortune here. At work, it is similarly quiet, mostly due to the place sacking all the consultants overnight, leaving two thirds of the office space a desert of empty desks. All major projects are suspended and the main point of discussion is about where we’re all going to be transferred to. I don’t have a boss really, as my supervisor, a pleasant, young whizz kid type, is as aware as I am that my stay there is temporary, and generally lets me do my own thing. The job cuts to the permanent staff haven’t happened yet, but are probably a few months away. Natalie, who isn’t as used to this as I am, was fairly upset after the last staff meeting, but should keep her job (as should I). The policy head, an arrogant, fairly corrupt and ineffectual man who was hated by everyone, was turfed out last week but is still hanging around like a ghost, using some sole trader company he has to reinvent himself as a ‘consultant’. His flunky, a chief adviser who is equally loathed (she was the one who, when asked to do her job, responded by complaining that I was harassing her and “had a problem with women”), is now adviser to nobody and is pretending haplessly that she has any remaining responsibility or power - we all ignore her, like watching a fish flap helplessly about on land. A couple of years ago, this sort of inaction and sense of doom would have seemed unusual to me, but with the recent maulings of the public service it is the norm.

This does give me time, though, to look for a house. I’m going to get a mortgage broker tomorrow and start actively looking for properties. The key things I’m looking for is a house or townhouse, 2 to 3 bedrooms, and not too close to may parents - >45min drive should be sufficient to avoid an Everybody Loves Raymond scenario. Somewhere close to a jogging track and access to public transport is also important. The landlord is kicking me out in August anyway, so this gives me a timeframe. House buying is a depressing activity in Melbourne, which, like most other Australian cities, has suffered from an incredible price boom, making it nearly impossible for anybody outside the rich to live in the inner city and turning the outer suburbs into soulless McMansions with excessive mortgages where nobody really wants to live. My parents are obsessive about me getting a house. For them it equals financial security and that equals happiness. But to be marooned in a crappy suburb where nothing happens and there’s nothing to look at would be a sure way for me to top myself before I turn 40. Courtney Barnetts ‘Depreston’ captures the problems with Melbourne house hunting perfectly.