Mr and Ms Harbinger-Jones.

Once there were a couple of hopeless barely employable dreamers/pontificators/lazybones who occasionally pretended to be a "writer" or an "artist" or a "website designer".

Now, that was an interesting couple of months. I'll never forget Gray's chickens; they went round, you see. Round and round. Nobody knew why. Nobody knew what they were doing on a law firm's website either.

We shall call them Mr and Ms Harbinger-Jones.

Anyway, they scratched out a bit of a living over the years; drooling for fun and profit, waitressing, modelling for artists, computering for people, playing music for beans etc., not getting commissioned works published, winning art prizes, etc... mostly just drooling for fun and profit.

"Darlink?" said Mr Harbinger-Jones, to his wife, one day.
"Yessink?" she said, in reply.
"Have you noticed a disturbing trend in our lives?" he wondered.
"Do you mean how wherever we go, dinky little coffee shops start popping up?" she said, conveniently.
"Yes, my dear and "Nice" is what might say..." he said,
"...as we innocently swill our latte soy dandy..." she said.
"...until we can't afford the rent." he said, in sudden and inexplicable fury.
"Or the latte soy dandy." she hissed, in outrage.

Comforting each other with the thought that Australia is indeed a big country, they set off for what they took to be a real backwater, a little village of flood-prone houses on the banks of the mighty Clarence. It was on a dull stretch of highway ten kilometres from the nearest Coles. The Coles-sized town was also very promising (of security of obscurity) being rather grim and devoted to agriculture and featuring a bitter looking great big old stone jail - still in the incarceration business. These signs seemed very promising to the Harbinger-Joneses who valued, above all else, cheap rent and a quiet life.

This time, it was a plague of antique stores that turned their idyllic little backwater into a so called 'artist's haven'. When the rent went up, they sold their books to the nouveau intelligentsia who were arriving en masse for the dandy soy lattes, and the Harbinger-Joneses set off around Australia looking for a place to call home again.

After months of sun addled and sandy socked travelling they found the little town of Bugsplat. On a road to nowhere. Rows of empty shops. Asbestos in the walls.

"Hooray!" said the foolish Harbinger-Joneses.