Going Going Gone
As some of you know, two weeks ago I spent my very last night at 34 Hayberry Street, Crows Nest. When the house was finally stripped bare and I walked through it for the very last time, I was completely overcome with a feeling of melancholy. I choked back the tears while Spidey mulled over what to do with the box of fireworks he had secretly stored away for six years.
Hayberry, which I affectionately liked to call it, was where I eventually called home for 15 months. But for some time, it was nothing more to me than Spidey's abode; your typical bachelor pad decked out in dark wood furnishings, the latest surround sound system and a shaven mutt. Over time and numerous behind-closed-doors action, 'his place' became 'our place' .
Now it is
for sale. For some other family, or worse still, some couple with a shaven mutt to occupy it and fill it with their memories and their stories.
And I don't like it one bit.
Also, if I still have a spare key, is it still considered trespassing?
I give you Laura, who really should be a writer.
Have been asked to do a celebrity post, as Ms Lokes is out of action aka not feeling creative. I have agreed to help her out due solely to celebrity tag. Am pathetically flattered. So here goes:
I am lucky enough to *work* (** these will be explained hereafter) with a man from the mother country, a fellow to whom this post is dedicated, and one who almost did not survive to welcome 4pm today. The cause? Call it what you will - insufferable know-it-all-ness, severe case of verbal vomit, unfortunate misunderstanding of one's own importance in the cosmos, but this gentleman is living on borrowed time. And I am here to collect.
I relay to you the topics explained to me by him in the last 10 minutes.
1. Why the sky is blue.
2. Why the sea is blue.
3. Why green water is green.
There followed an exposition re.
4. Yankees, the Unions and the Confederate Army
5. COT being a ridiculous prefix for Cootamundra.
6. John someone or other who was a philosopher 'that no one likes'.
7. Australian's being the new yanks, and how he has called us the 'south pacific yanks' for years.
Now may I interject. Was I talking to this cretin? I was not. Did I ask anything remotely related to any of the above topics? I did not. Was I, strange as it may seem, actually attempting to do that for which I am paid fortnightly on a Wednesday, only to be distracted by his pompous, self indulgent posturing.
Indeed.
And so my rage is such that I am typing with sufficient ferocity to merit my boss coming over and making a stale little joke about wishing his anatomy was my keyboard. It is such that my eyes keep being drawn to my scissors, metallic and sharp, sitting in a little pot, ready to be hurled at a moments notice. I want to cut off all his hair (foppish in the most unappealing Hugh Grant sense of the word), force him to eat it and then remove whatever part of his brain it is that feels the need to wax lyrical about every topic that pops into it. Why when one mentions a carrot, he feels the need to tell you why the Indians first grew them way back in the 18th Century when the Salem witch trials helped pioneer the invention of the first man made rollercoaster.
Did you know the work 'poppycock' comes from the Dutch word meaning 'soft'? Did you care? How about that Sydney is called such because it was named after Lord Sydney, and Brisbane because it was named after the governor of NSW? I don't know the factual veracity of these comments, only that I DON'T BLOODY CARE!!
Which raises an interesting point. How does he know? He wasn't even born here, was never subject to pathetic Australian History lessons, filled with meaningless tat. So he has learned it? All these stupid facts, to what, impress women at the French class he attends? The French class he attends because he is the only male to do so, and at which he excels because he knows what the teacher is going to say before she speaks?
I know too much about this man! I am screaming inside (and almost out) with a rage I cannot express with the written word. Malice aforethought? You better believe it. Lokes, I caution you that I may be needing your professional services, real soon.
No not THOSE services...
