“Ah, but… two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room.”
- Roger Miller, King of the Road (1965)
Week 2 ½. Still no house. Don’t ask.
All right, ask.
What’s the problem? Too fussy? [I hear you sneer.] Maybe. Never would have believed it a decade ago, roaming the real estate agents in packs of university students, but I am now so old and decrepit that kitchens and bathrooms really matter to me. In this year of grace 2006 I find I expect:
a) a bathroom that I can exit cleaner than when I entered it; and
b) a kitchen that won’t attract the attention of the Health Department.
On past form this would probably discount most of the houses I’ve lived in since leaving the nest, notably the Barkly St Modern Farce in East Brunswick, the Marsh St shack in Armidale, and the stucco horror at North St, Tamworth.
How times have changed. These days I stride confidently into property viewings, unwashed uni student hordes scattering at the sight of my neatly pressed grey wool blend slacks, neutral lipstick and Corporation ID tag. Makes me feel like Moses breaking up the Golden Calf orgy. Estate Agent drones quake in terror [read: actually offer me an application form]. If I catch my reflection in a scungy bathroom mirror, I scare myself.
Not that it’s helped so far, mind. The houses and flats roll on, acres of curling brown lino, mouldy grouting and peeling paint stretching far over the horizon.
I’ve started keeping a tally of the number of houses I’ve visited. Not those enquired about, driven past, etc., but those I’ve actually seen the inside of. The tally looks like one of those scratched onto a dank prison wall, marking the days of punishment. You know how the days turn into weeks, months and then years?
IIIII IIIII III
I’ve decided to adopt a Zen attitude to finding digs: simply close my eyes, think positively and a great place will come to me.
It’s comfortably close to shutting my eyes and hoping it will all go away.
New this week:
Bumble bees. There are genuine bumble bees in Hobart: fat, furry, tiny wings, loud buzz, the whole bit. Charming!
1 comment:
Well hello, Miss Andrea. Greetings from sunny Melbourne. As a man with fond memories of the Barkly St Modern Farce (now deceased) I wish you well in your endeavours to find something better than a backyard cubby in Hobart...
Post a Comment