Your Bush Looks Expensive
July 29, 2001
When Adam and I relocated from Sydney’s finest central point of gravitation for AC/DC fans to an apartment near the city, we entered that enjoyable stage of relationships when a couple moves into a new abode together. No longer is it your boyfriend’s place - now you can both feel as though you have equal ownership of the roof over your heads.
It’s akin to when KFC gobbled up the rival grease-swimming chicken chain Ollie’s in the late 80’s, albeit with a lot less oil burns involved.
This week, Adam proposed a move to Melbourne next February once our lease has run out for our apartment. The fact that we’ve traversed the halfway mark on our current lease is a little unsettling, considering I only have to turn no more than 180 degrees in my seat and can spot at least two unpacked boxes from when we last moved house. It seems like only last week when I was stumbling around the vagrant-flecked cracked bitumen of our suburb for the first time, eyes agog taking in the splendrous student-crammed terrace houses; and nervous, athletic men hoisting small electronic appliances over their shoulders.
Researching places to live over this weekend, I pleasantly surprised myself with Melbourne’s current rent prices which once seemed ghastly whilst I inhabited the city, but after enduring the bank account rape of Sydney rent shall be a highly desirable change.
One obstacle which we’ll hopefully overcome without trouble is the job market in Melbourne, currently dressing itself up as Sydney Job Market Lite. Containing around half of the available positions I’m used to choosing from in Sydney, this will definitely be something we’ll get our teeth into months before physically moving.
This also means I can probably kiss my almost sexual fantasy of possessing a job which involves Sydney harbour views from a high-rise building. All’s not lost, though: in Melbourne I can at least begin a goal of working in an office with a view of the Yarra River. Sure, it looks picturesque in brochures, but nowadays Photoshop filters can make even Mal Colston look credible. Nothing wrong with the Yarra in sparkling cityline photographs by night, but come sunrise the glaringly obvious embarrassment comes to light: this river has been placed in the ground upside down. Yesiree, you won’t find a river browner than the Yarra.
These new plans for interstate relocation completely negate my somewhat misguided Better Homes & Gardens plans for our apartment. In a fit of pure Hazelhurstdom, I’d concocted all sorts of homemaking ideas when we moved to the city apartment, which surprised even myself. Eventually I passed this off on my gay gene, which had likely swelled somewhat after sensing a relocation closer to the gayest street in Australia than before.
For now, we’ll probably save our pennies for the move and my little fantasies of actually purchasing a dining table and chairs to replace our nightly plate balancing acts on our laps will remain fantasy. Plans to reinvent our balcony as a small jungle will also, unfortunately, not be realised. This was something I was quite keen on - especially after noticing one local apartment neighbour had such a dense collection of greenery, a beehive had cropped up amongst the lush collection of plants swelling over his lookout onto the street.
It was with a similar decoration of plants that I envisioned our balcony just a few weeks ago, and decided to investigate plant nurseries around the area. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the simple plant-selling business’ transition to inner-city yuppiedom: namely, charging an offensive extra amount on otherwise sensibly priced organic growth. Perhaps also providing those fiddly paper bags with string handles in lieu of regular plastic bags, with ‘environmentally friendly’ screaming across the front to ensure the yuppie in question has their slightly nagging sense of environmental sensibility sedated as they roar off in their petrol-quelching 4 wheel drive with bullbar.
Upon casually strolling to the corner store for some milk, bread and inevitable fuel for my man-breasts as well, I noticed some green leaves thrashing against a fence in the wind. As if imprisoned, they flung themselves against the metal fencing, wind screaming through them.
Unexpectedly happy at finding a local source of plants, I trotted over the road curiously to find that the outlet which sold the plants was a combination cafe/nursery. In retrospect, I probably couldn’t have hoped for any less in the city.
As the plants were locked away in a closed section next to the cafe, I strained my neck to see the price tags flapping furiously in the wind. A pouting waiter with arms folded sidled to my side.
‘Can I… help you?’ he enquired dubiously, as if I was one of the most horrifyingly grotesque beings constructed in nature’s history. Personally, I would have awarded that particular title to an obscenely yellow collection of wilting tulips in the far corner of the collection of plants.
Noticing some attractive orchid-type bushes in pots, I jabbed my finger towards them. ‘Can I have a look at those?’ I asked.
A sigh emitted with enough force to knock a wig off someone’s head came forth from the waiter. ‘We really don’t like to open the flora studio after hours’, he whined, accentuating ‘after hours’ with waggling finger-quotes in the air.
‘Flora studio?’ I asked incredulously. The inner city was worse than I thought! ‘What happened to just plain old nurseries?’ I joked.
Stone faced, the waiter stared blankly in return. ‘This is not a mere nursery,’ he stated. ‘This is the work of a respected Sydney flora artist.’
Rolling my eyes out of his vision, I realised I’d have to restrain myself. ‘Well, all I want to do is take a look at your bush.’
His eyes bugged at me, and I immediately blushed upon realising what I’d just said. ‘Um. That orchid, over there,’ I stabbed into the metal cage.
‘Look. Do you want to buy it or not?’ he asked, folding and unfolding his arms as if uncomfortable with his limbs.
‘Well, I want to buy a few for my balcony,’ I explained. ‘But I’m not so sure they’d survive around here. There’s a few lame-looking plants in there that I wouldn’t think of buying.’
‘These are of premium quality,’ he snapped through pressed lips, offended that I would badmouth his precious flora artist. As an afterthought, he added ‘They cost $400 each, too.’
Gasping inwardly, I wondered if this was the norm or if he’d applied a personal fuckwit tax as a special offer. Peeking into the cage at the price tags, I tried to confirm the actual price advertised on the plants. ‘Are you sure there’s no full stop in there somewhere?’ I murmured.
The waiter started at me pointedly, making a show of violently tapping his foot impatiently.
‘I’m not sure I can afford that much, it seems an awful lot just for an orchid. Um… they don’t look so healthy either, and-’ I began.
‘Do you have any other comments you’d like to throw into the arena?’ he demanded.
‘Er… no,’ I replied, startled. ‘What are people buying at the moment generally?’ I enquired, thinking he’d be able to offer something more reasonable.
‘I have no idea,’ he coughed. ‘Orchids aren’t very popular though,’ he couldn’t resist adding for my benefit. ‘Although I guess people used to buy them and still own them, nobody really likes to admit it nowadays, it’s just so… not in fashion,’ he shrugged.
‘Heh. So that’s like how everyone used to love Bush when they brought out Sixteen Stone, but now nobody admits it and it’s hidden away at the back of your cupboard?’ I asked.
A five second pause accompanied by puzzled look from the waiter. ‘Bush?’ he eventually asked.
‘You know… Glisterine, and all those songs,’ I explained.
‘What kind of bush?’ he asked again, confused.
‘No, not a plant bush,’ I explained. ‘BUSH Bush. The musicians.’
‘Um,’ he fiddled with his apron. ‘Kate Bush?’
‘No,’ I sighed.
‘You’re wasting my time,’ he snapped. ‘I have tables to wait.’
‘Fine,’ I replied; and strode down the road back to my home.
The rule of thumb I now apply? Only buy plants from suburbs which invariably have plantations of both legal and non-legal varieties, to ensure cost sensibility.
