It was an article in a British newspaper saying that the little Italian village of Bormida (pop. 394) was offering anyone more than $2000 if they moved there.

They even offered apartments as low as $60 a week.

So, being curious, we immediately jumped on Google satellite images and had a look at this place.

It’s a mountain village just inland on Italy’s north-west bit, not far from where it threatens to become France.

Essentially just one street along a valley with a few side roads, it’s beautiful in the way only an Italian mountain village could be. Lots of old stone buildings, red geraniums in window boxes, a little rippling river, tree-clad hills, deep blue skies with picturesquely arranged puffy white clouds.

The mayor, Daniele Galliano, apologised there wasn’t much to do there.

Although it had four restaurants and a church and wasn’t all that far from the Cinque Terre region, one of the most loved and visited tourism hotspots in the world.

“Waddya think?” I asked Mrs Whacked.

Now, it should be said that we love Italy and the Italians.

I grew up with Italian neighbours and Italian school chums, and even though we’ve been there a couple of times, we always say we’d go back in a heartbeat given the opportunity.

It’d just be a bonus at this time to move to a place which had never heard of “budgetary infrastructure priorities, why Tassie missed out again, what it means to governments, opposition, independents (all of the above), and why we’re all winners and losers and we’re all going down the global gurgler.”

She replied with exaggerated consideration. “Well, where would we put the corgies, the cats, the chooks, your grey Fergie, your cast iron bottle opener collection, the barbie, the huge dining table, spare guest room, the green house, the orchard, the pool deck, the vegie patch, old Kevin the Kampervan …“ Clearly, this was going to be a sentence in search of an ending.

“But,” I started, trying to construct a killer argument on the run.

“Look at this map, see the main street? It’s called Piano Soprano! You love opera! Our daughter is an opera singer!”

I didn’t ‘fess that I’d already looked it up and in this case “Piano soprano” just meant a flat road in a very high place where it was advisable to drive carefully. Details. Details.

The interesting and potentially useful thing about questioning where you live and wondering what other places might offer is that it means you don’t just wake up in a place for no more exciting reason than you were born there, or it was just too hard to think of moving.

For some reason, we often thank the Forces of Serendipity which saw us live in Bendigo.

Mrs Whacked often remarks that Bendigonians won the Lotto of Life. Any news bulletin will reinforce that view.

So, sorry Mayor Galliano, even though you have a desirable surname, we won’t be taking your $2000 or the cheap stone apartment in your idyllic mountain village, and we will not stroll arm-in-arm along the Piano Soprano under brilliant Ligurian skies, taking it in turns to sample all four of your restaurants.

The corgies have spoken.

That, and the fact that living here is safe, seductive and satisfying.

WAYNE GREGSON