Hey man, now you're really living

I thought you'd prefer a picture of Victoria Hamilton than Hamilton, Victoria.

IF YOU can’t say anything nice you shouldn’t say anything at all… but there’s a town way out on the Glenelg Highway that just prompts an astonished outburst or two.

At first glance all the Colorbond fences in Hamilton lead you to believe it’s a sprawling green and orange home for the elderly, but then I go into the McDonald’s for a wash and there they all are, the real natives: hemmed in like the apocalypse has hit. Nobody walks – they shuffle. And everyone has a murderous look.

Struggling to find us some camping gear so early in the morning, the bush pirate and I circle the town and its infernal roundabout system for a good hour, taking in the disused wool sheds and careworn shop fronts with violent puns for names. Graffiti on the door of one of the public toilets says: “Fuck you I am going to kill you” in six-inch high letters, without even discriminating.

For many kays now, the bush pirate has been urging me to join him in the construction of a new Nick Cave murder ballad with a biblical bent. I’d been struck dumb by the need for coffee, but now my imagination is fired, and out comes the lurching tale of a bad son of Hamilton who slaughters people in their beds and then can’t escape himself because of woeful local signposting.

Many verses later I leave Hamilton invigorated, but the bush pirate is disquieted by my character assassination of the little town. I forget sometimes that such behaviour is considered unsporting in Australia.

In an effort to redress the balance, when we later pull into the western Victoria town of Nhill the bush pirate suggests we only say nice things.

He demonstrates by going into Coles and having a good ol’ chinwag with the checkout woman about the ridiculous price of avocados in Grampians compared to a sensible town like this. Soon enough, the elasticity returns to her face and she recounts the rigours and routines of her weekend.

Nhill is already famous.

Next it’s a stop at the bottle shop, and having overheard how lovely the bush pirate’s last conversation was, the woman behind the till is eager to have one too. Both women dig out some bargain beery buys for us, and when we leave it’s waves all round.

There are two pubs in town, and we choose the no-nonsense joint that refuses to bow and scrape to progress. The landlord seems surprised to see us – and not best pleased, as he’s watching Goodbye Mr Chips – but he rouses himself from his chair and pours us some drinks.

This pub was a snark-free zone.

Within minutes, the bush pirate’s honeyed his ear with talk of our journey and our good fortune for pulling into an honest knockabout like Nhill. Brightening, the landlord sticks money in the jukebox and picks out some Garth Brooks favourites, leaving the rest of the selection for us. The beers keep coming and the pool games are free.

We leave Nhill feeling proper restored. There’s no chance of feeling nhillistic in a town whose main employer is called Luv-a-Duck, anyway.

Keeper? Strictly speaking I was only nice-by-proxy, but now I know how it’s done I’ll give it a whirl.

IT’S now the year of the rabbit – my year – and while I don’t seem to possess any of the traditional characteristics of this noble beast, I’m still keen to celebrate appropriately.

I go to Chinatown and buy some red packets. If you’re married, you’re supposed to put money in them and give them to children or single people you feel sorry for. There’re no instructions I can find for if you’re technically married but not in any position to be encouraging others, and I’m not made of money, so I buy a packet of fortune cookies to fill the envelopes. That’s nice, isn’t it?

Then I head down to Southbank, where some celebrating is already going down, I pose awkwardly for a set of commemorative Valentish stamps… and end up looking like a jaundiced Sylvia Plath. Not a sign of things to come, one hopes.

Keeper? No, because I will be posting them out to people – and just affixing the stamps to lampposts.

IN my childhood home, writing a thank you note was as vital for a healthy constitution as Sun-Maid Raisins and morning ablutions, yet I haven’t cracked out a notelet since Christmas 1987.

Get this, though. Not only could writing a thank you note almost qualify as a random act of kindness (so unanticipated would it be), but Buddhists have known since the sand flats of time that gratitude for your lot is the No.1 way you can improve your quality of life. Coming late to the party, I’ve made up for lost decades by getting a Gratitude app on my iPhone, as endorsed by Oprah. That’s got me through some tough times and boring train journeys, I can tell you.

I decide to write three thank you notes to people who probably don’t even know they gave me a warm feeling recently, with fingers firmly crossed that they don’t think I’m creepy. I choose notelets with animals on, as is customary for such occasions, and send the first one to the local vet. He handled Mr Thumpy on Saturday with a tenderness unbecoming to a veterinarian, and only charged me $27. Hopefully this wasn’t a mistake, or I’ll soon be getting a note BACK.

The others recipients I’ll keep to myself.

Keeper? I’m probably not going to be one of those people who send their favourite Starbucks outlet a postcard from Greece, but heartfelt missives should be allowed to run riot, at least until the cops are called.

WHAT kind of a kid doesn’t send a message in a bottle? Even tackers should have a bucket list, but I never got round to it. Now’s the time to make amends.

Up in Point Lonsdale I take a scenic walk with my friend Anna, a conservationist, and find a good spot to lob a Schweppes bottle into the sea.

On the pier we find a great spot to launch my sickly note dedicated to friends new, and I send it forth when no one’s looking. Bye bye, bottle, race you to the shore.

On our way back we spot a gummy shark’s head, which a man picks up and makes talk for his two-year-old kid.

Keeper? Yes. This is fun.