Bathroom Risotto, Anyone?

There’s certain things you just don’t want to deal with in life.

Being forced to endure saccharine Disney movies when you’re minding kids.

The suicidal endeavour that is reformatting Windows.

Moving interstate and all the bullshittery that goes with it.

Since the weekend, I can add another item to this list:

BATHROOM MUSHROOMS.

See, the suburb I’ve recently moved to (St Kilda) has a reasonably bawdy reputation. The fact remains, however: it’s pretty bloody difficult to pass off bathroom funghi as part of your high-art bohemian lifestyle.

Revoltingly, the initial sprout appeared in mere hours while I was out on Saturday night. My housemate Matt swore it wasn’t there when we left. Dimissively, I laughed him off and retreated to slumber.

Upon arising, I realised the disgusting infestation had quadrupled in quantity overnight. Now, few things make me genuinely queasy. Off the top of my head: most horror movies because I’m a lady, coach tours, people with a genuine belief that Sunrise phone polls can rock the nation’s govern, earnest prog-rock vocalists, and omelets (easily the attention-seeking drag queen of the pancake world).

Pretty sure I can safely add mushrooms growing underneath our shower to that list… particularly when they’re growing at a rate that suggests I’ll require a machete to slice through a funghi crop, just to escape my bedroom in the morning.

We had to traverse a particularly dangerous balance between allowing the mushies to flourish to a certain level. While we required thoroughly repulsive evidence for our real estate agent, we also didn’t want to inhale some airborne bathroom mushroom disease.

We’re still waiting on them to do something about it. In the meantime, it’s worth noting that we’ve kept the mushrooms aside in a zip-lock bag. If you think you’ve crossed me and I serve you risotto when you visit, beware.