“How’s the house?” Farm Boy enquires everyday over lunch or email.
“Meh,” I would begin unenthusiastically. We both know that the share house is a point of great angst for me. But once the topic is out in the open, I would continue the story of my rundown Brunswick granny flat with much animation.
“I started to cook pasta last night. In heels, because I was too lazy to change out of them and I like feeling tall.” I said over lunch today with my fellow grads. “But I knocked my head on the rangehood and slabs of built up grease fell into the pasta.”
“Eww,” cried the girls.
“Cool,” said the Farm Boy. “Makes great condiments.”
“No sauce-in-a-bottle for you. It’s all ready made on the rangehood,” said the Heartbreaker.
I am beginning to suspect that I was not of sound mind when I agreed to take up on Aunt T’s offer to live here.
The share house is situated at the back of a laneway on Brunswick Road. It isn’t too far from the Melbourne CBD – a twenty-minute tram ride, or three minutes by car. This is the only pro I can think of.
Three weeks ago, when I first moved in, the sight of kitchen and bathrooms brought tears to my eyes. The bathroom floor was probably tiled, but it is now carpeted in loose strands of hair (some very short and curly, eww). The kitchen can only be described in one word: sticky. Years of grease has been built up and it is now as oily as a car repair garage.
The state of my room was almost enough to send me back home to Sydney. The room came furnished with the bare essentials -- a single bed, a desk and a built-in wardrobe. My only thought when I first burst in here was: I am never going to get laid here.
The wardrobe door was falling off the hinges and I spent a week with my suits on the floor (which of course was covered in hair before I vacuumed it) until Aunt T sent someone to fix it. It’s still not fixed, the wardrobe is without doors, but at least my suits are now off the floor.
It has been a little more than a nightmare. Sometimes I feel like a spoilt little princess whenever I start the whining. But I’ve lived in horrible places before – the dorms at UBC were not so flash – this just tops it all. I shower, go to the loo, brush my teeth and sometimes cook with my eyes closed.
It is time to look for a place where this swell mademoiselle can shower with her eyes open.
“Meh,” I would begin unenthusiastically. We both know that the share house is a point of great angst for me. But once the topic is out in the open, I would continue the story of my rundown Brunswick granny flat with much animation.
“I started to cook pasta last night. In heels, because I was too lazy to change out of them and I like feeling tall.” I said over lunch today with my fellow grads. “But I knocked my head on the rangehood and slabs of built up grease fell into the pasta.”
“Eww,” cried the girls.
“Cool,” said the Farm Boy. “Makes great condiments.”
“No sauce-in-a-bottle for you. It’s all ready made on the rangehood,” said the Heartbreaker.
I am beginning to suspect that I was not of sound mind when I agreed to take up on Aunt T’s offer to live here.
The share house is situated at the back of a laneway on Brunswick Road. It isn’t too far from the Melbourne CBD – a twenty-minute tram ride, or three minutes by car. This is the only pro I can think of.
Three weeks ago, when I first moved in, the sight of kitchen and bathrooms brought tears to my eyes. The bathroom floor was probably tiled, but it is now carpeted in loose strands of hair (some very short and curly, eww). The kitchen can only be described in one word: sticky. Years of grease has been built up and it is now as oily as a car repair garage.
The state of my room was almost enough to send me back home to Sydney. The room came furnished with the bare essentials -- a single bed, a desk and a built-in wardrobe. My only thought when I first burst in here was: I am never going to get laid here.
The wardrobe door was falling off the hinges and I spent a week with my suits on the floor (which of course was covered in hair before I vacuumed it) until Aunt T sent someone to fix it. It’s still not fixed, the wardrobe is without doors, but at least my suits are now off the floor.
It has been a little more than a nightmare. Sometimes I feel like a spoilt little princess whenever I start the whining. But I’ve lived in horrible places before – the dorms at UBC were not so flash – this just tops it all. I shower, go to the loo, brush my teeth and sometimes cook with my eyes closed.
It is time to look for a place where this swell mademoiselle can shower with her eyes open.
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