Half of my possessions are still in the boxes we moved them in, but our new place in the city is looking pretty good. It’s a notable improvement from our shoebox in the outer west, at the very least. I also believe the rent we’re now paying is enough to cause a drop in the Australian dollar if we don’t pay it on time.
That’s the only major issue – the expensive rent. I’m hoping I get a nice salary at my next job to make up for this. I honestly won’t know myself – I used to have to wake up between 5am and 6am when I was living out west. Now, I can wake up at 8.30am if I want, and still get to work on time.
The only interesting thing about packing up everything you own is finding weird things, such as an enormous supply of girlie pornography (which Adam swears is from his old flatmate), an infestation of cockroaches and silverfish, and an incredibly old cartoon Adam drew when he was a teenager entitled ‘Bong On’. No idea why it’s not syndicated.
The dilemma of what to do with my Datsun was solved by Adam – his brothers agreed to buy it for $100. Believe me, it’s a good deal – the McDonalds vouchers in the glovebox are worth more than the car alone. Adam demanded some of the money when he told me of their purchasing intentions:
Adam: So, you can give me an extra $20 or something.
Me: What?
Adam: You know, commission.
Me: Fuck off!
Adam: Hey, they’re MY brothers!
The new place is so much larger, but it’s not without its downfalls. For example, at our old unit the toilet was located inside the bathroom. Here in the city, the toilet’s got a room of its own. I can’t count the number of times I’ve stumbled into the bathroom after I’ve just woken up and wondered where the fuck the toilet is. It’s a small wonder I haven’t pissed in the bath yet.
I haven’t taken much notice of our neighbours yet – I understand people who live in city apartments tend not to talk to each other (I’ll soon change that – rudeness is the key!). The only neighbours I’ve noticed so far are a family next door, and a more interesting Jamaican character upstairs. I can see his balcony from our place, and it’s riddled with vodka bottles. He’s got fairy lights strung up everywhere too. I think I’ve found our new resident dodgy person to replace Wezza at our old place.
It has to be said that the inner city of Sydney is definitely not one of the safest places to live in Australia. The following facts had me a little worried initially:
1. We checked our mailbox once we’d moved in, and all we had received was junk mail and a letter from one of the residents in our apartment building. It was a rather heartfelt letter, warning all residents that he’d been broken into the previous morning and he’d come face to face with the thug in question. The worrying thing is that the thief entered from the inside of the building – slightly worrying when you need to know a pin number and to get past two locks just to get into someone’s apartment.
2. Adam was talking to the owner of the apartment block once we’d moved in, and found out some of the local gossip about the residents. People like, oh, let’s say… THE COKE DEALER WHO LIVED IN THE APARTMENT ABOVE US. He must have been one of the big guns, because a police helicopter landed here and broke down his door and had a raid. Going to your neighbour and asking if you can borrow some sugar takes on a whole new meaning with neighbours like these.
3. After the first two events, I decided to check on the crime statistics for the area. I experienced alarm after doing some calculations, and realising that by living in this postcode, we’re in with a 1 in 5 chance of having something stolen within the year.
4. Just when I’d decided that this place was no worse than where we used to live – after all, certain western suburbs have as bad a reputation as the city, and they’re not half as bad as the reality – when I heard the Jamaican guy on his balcony calling out ‘Heroin! HEROIN! HEROIN!’ Unless he was performing a reverse-gender Romeo and Juliet, calling out to his mistress heroine on the street below, I’m not sure what this could mean. I’m watching him, anyway.
Fortunately, Adam has thought of some sneaky tricks as usual. While the first method of deterring thieves is potentially racist, it’s kinda clever (best not to mention it here, I guess). The second method is a little more practical – our main concern is that people will climb up our drainpipe to the balcony (we live on the street side of the building). Adam’s decided we’ll grease up the drainpipe – pretty smart. It’s also going to give me what’s likely to be my first and last opportunity to burst into a supermarket and scream ‘A tub of lard. NOW!’ while frothing at the mouth. Adam claims he learn this “while I was in ‘Nam”, like he does with all his clever ideas.
Me (on phone to my mum): So we’re going to grease up the drainpipe. Adam thought of that idea.
My mum: Oh, how clever.
Me: He learnt it while he was in ‘Nam.
My mum: In what?
Me: ‘Nam. Vietnam.
My mum: (long pause) Wow. He looked so young when he visited here, too…
Me: No, it’s a joke.
My mum: War is most certainly not a joke! Your grandfather fought in the-
Me: Adam didn’t go to ‘Nam, mum! He’s fucking 24 years old!
My mum: Oh. Well, that does make sense.
Me: Yes, it d-
My mum: (swift change of subject now she’s realised she’s wrong) So are you near Oxford Street?
Me: Oh, sort of.
My mum: Because you have to go and see the Gay Mardi Gras now. You’ve got no excuse.
Me: You’re ordering me to go and see the Mardi Gras?
My mum: I’d probably disown you if you didn’t. It’d be the best experience of your life.
Me: No, see, this is all wrong.
My mum: What?
Me: Parents disown their children for BEING gay, not for NOT being gay.
My mum: If you don’t see it, I’d be pretty disappointed in you.
Me: Mum, it-
My mum: DISOWNED!
So while we may not be living in a safe area, at least it’s not in the middle of the CBD. I don’t think I’ll ever have encounters such as ones like Adam’s told me about:
Homeless old guy with girl around around waist: Hey, have you got a couple of bucks to spare?
Adam: No, sorry.
Homeless old guy with girl around around waist: Just a few bucks, man.
Girl draped around homeless old guy’s waist: Please, we really need it.
Adam: No.
(pause)
Homeless old guy with girl around around waist: (looks at girl, then at Adam) Have you got any condoms, then?
Another change is the fact that I won’t have to catch the train for a total of two to three hours every day. Usually I read on the train, but I can’t always take whatever book I happen to be reading at the time on the train. There was a nasty incident a few months ago when I pulled out ‘Bending the Landscape: Gay and Lesbian Science Fiction Short Story Adventures!’ on the train by accident, forgetting where I was.
That book, despite how ridiculous it sounds, is actually quite interesting. Lots of what-if scenarios of the future. Also, any book with a short story billed as a ‘lesbian time travel romance-revenge story’ is surely breaking into new genres.
Not that there’s any work to commute to just yet, however. I had a rather promising interview today with a recruitment agency, who were one of the first recruitment agencies that actually listened to what I wanted to do.
My current plan is to aim for a PA job. I realise I don’t quite have the administrational experience (I’ve been working in customer service for the last two years), so the lady who interviewed me and myself agreed it’d be best if I got a job that combined customer service with admin stuff. The company I’ll hopefully be joining is quite big on internal promotion, so I’d hopefully get a PA role sooner or later.
The lady at the recruitment agency was wonderful – she was even understanding yesterday when she phoned me and I had to explain that I was standing in a room with only a beanbag, so I couldn’t write down her phone number as I’d just moved in.
We were discussing my move to the city when I had my interview – she was quite casual and it was very relaxed. She asked me who I’d moved to the city with, and by reflex I flatly said ‘my boyfriend’. Her eyebrows raised, and I looked away, a little embarassed.
‘It’s okay,’ she assured me, taking a bite of her muffin. She chewed on it thoughtfully, as if she wanted to say something. Eventually, she blurted ‘I’m a lefffbian,’ showering the postcode area with muffin crumbs.
Once we’d cleared up our gender preferences (always the first item on the agenda in any job interview), we discussed my skills. Specifically, my typing speed, which is 100 words a minute (without substance abuse).
‘You’re very fast, the fastest I’ve seen,’ the lady cooed.
‘In terms of typing, I’m a Ferrari,’ I slowly ventured, cursing myself instantly for saying such a ridiculous line.
‘If typing speeds were penis lengths, you’d have a big career in adult film ahead of you,’ the interview lady murmured from behind her clipboard. My eyes rounded and she laughed at my reaction.
Don’t ask how, but she even worked out a way to calculate a ratio.
Typing speed (words per minute) divided by 10 = penis length in inches
We very nearly had a debate over if having sex with your partner while they’re asleep equates to potential necrophiliac tendancies, but this was swiftly ended when the conversation got a little… weird.
I decided to visit a nearby shopping centre in search of adhesive plastic clips. You’d be surprised how simple an item is so difficult to find. To cut a long story short, after much arguing with Adam, I’m going against his wishes and hanging a calendar in the toilet. Adam rants that there’s no point to a calender in the toilet (there is! If you have a period, that is), but I want to hang up that calendar with the firemen in it. If only I can locate it – that’s proving harder to find than the adhesive plastic hooks.
I made my way to the nearest department store type outlet, and wasn’t too sure where to begin. Kitchenware seemed a good a start as any department, so I trundled over there and asked a pimply young kid for assistance.
Me: Do you have adhesive hooks here?
Kid: Wot?
Me: Hooks with sticky bits on the back, so I can hang stuff up.
Kid: Like wot?
Me: A calendar.
Kid: Whoa HOO HOO! A CALENDAR, eh? (nudges me in the ribs) What kind of calendar?
Me: Half naked firemen, if you really must know.
Kid: Oh… (slightly put off) uh, for your girlfriend, right?
Me: No, for me.
Kid: (visibly uneasy) Um… er… geez.
Me: What?
Kid: That’s, that’s… (he silently curses staff policy) hmm.
Me: So have you got the hooks?
Kid: (flatly) No. (under breath) Faggot.
Me: What, you’re not even going to look?
Kid: (defiant) We dun have ‘em.
Me: Right. So can you direct me to your home decorating department?
Kid: (disbelief) WHAT?!
Me: Home decorating.
Kid: (rolling eyes – typical gay, he’s thinking) There’s a store directory over there.
Me: (not going to let him get away with this, I think) No, I’d like you to show me.
Kid: (angrily) It’s upstairs, okay? Geez. Why do you want me to take you to home decorating, of all places?
Me: So you can show me where the fabric rulers are. You’ll need one as a torniquet after I break your arm, you see.
After that little incident, I hailed down a taxi outside and directed the driver to my home. I always like to make conversation with taxi drivers, because I feel some sort of empathy for them, I guess. A lot of them probably just sit there all day without anything to say.
I decided to use Adam’s taxi driver conversation line that he always uses: ‘So, has it been a busy day today?’
No sooner had I spoken these words, when the driver turned in his seat towards me as if I had a serious mental problem and sneered ‘It’s only ten bloody AM! What the hell do YOU think?’
I resisted the urge to make another torniquet remark and sat silently in my seat for the rest of the journey. Perhaps I won’t be so talkative with taxi drivers in the future.