On the floor, further to my right past the already burgeoning mess of
cables plugged into a five socket powerboard that I'm sure Dad is
pissed about me having (even though I know for a fact that he
would have no use for it back home... motherfucker doesn't even own a
cellular telephone-machine) is my second monitor. It's a 17inch
flatscreen that I bought for three-hundred badboys when I was like
fifteen or some shit. In the corner are some sheets that will never
be used because really I have never understood the usefulness
of sheets. Like yeah sure I get the ones that you cover your mattress
with, and we'll get to my bedding situation later, but the other
ones... that thin layer of superfluous cotton that is supposed to
line the people-sandwich between person and quilt cover... they are
bullshit. If someone is using those sheets then they are clearly too
afraid of something.
Past that along the wall to my right are a few books including the
English-Spanish dictionary given to my upon my departure from Bolivia
in February by my formerly estranged, now slightly-less-estranged
ex-lady Melanie. She wrote a nice note in it for me when we left and
I plan on holding on to that guy because, as it says in 'Everyone Has
the Right to Wear Sunscreen': “keep your old love letters, throw
away your old bank statements.” There are no bank statements in
this room... you can do that shit online now. Then more books and a
fat pile of clothes, most of which I don't really like any more but I
know will eventually be worn out of sheer laziness and aversion to
trips to the laundromat. I only have one laundry bag and while it is
a hefty piece of bagery, I really can't see myself making that
trip any more than once a fortnight... that's fine, I needed to buy
new socks and underpants anyway. (On that note, just quickly, the
list of stuff that I lost that I ended up losing to the hostel tax
grew by three pairs of socks, two undies, and another tube of
toothpaste along with countless food items in the final weeks... I've
come to terms with the fact that those losses are largely my own
fault)
Behind me, after the door and the appropriate amount of empty
floor-space to account for that, are my shoes, and some of Phil's
shit that he left here like a the lowly drifter that he is – also
mate your jacket is hanging on my door, come get it back or I will
spit in the pockets. Then there's my bed; a single mattress with the
fitted sheet-cover ON (ladies) and five pillows arranged in the
optimum arrangement to avoid floor-touchies and the dreaded midnight
head-roll. (trust me, I've done tests) Now we're on the wall to my
left, just over my left shoulder and if you have a good ability to
spatially visualise what I'm writing about you will have noticed (do
the sums guys, it all adds up **gasp**) that my bed is on an angle
with the wall and actually forms a nice little right-angled triangle
between the short end and the two sides of the corner over my left
shoulder for those of you playing at home. There's my big bag – the
one with the 'Troop 712' tag still on from my heady junior days at
the Australian Jamboree – and a few hoodies and shoes and then
directly to my left are the sheets that will, god and Hubbard
willing, be going on my queen size bed when it arrives from Adelaide.
(it's on the list, you can't rush art, dickhead)
Finally, the most important item in this room, and the one that has
allowed me to begin reclaiming my sense of normalcy and begin to make
this bare, languid pit my new home: my Dad's old stereo amp. He told
me that it didn't work when I brought home the two speakers from the
Salvos a few months ago in Adelaide but I took it out of the shed in
Naldera Street and plugged it in anyway and, well long story short...
it did. It works fine mate, thank you nineteen-eighties. This badboy
has already done about ten solid hours of work in the five days that
I've been living here... actually make that twenty... and don't you
people let anyone say that I let a hard slog go unappreciated. On top
of that are my wallet, keys, and oh yeah to my right my phone is on
charge. Piece of shit is always on charge. Feels like my life is on
charge every time I walk into a room and I see a power point to plug
that bastard tool into. Okay... time to stop, I think things are
about to get a little too serious.
New digs hey. may the flat share gods (yes they do exist) bess you with the anit psycho and chesty cough protection shield and allow you the pleasure of encounters w random acts of generosity.
ReplyDeleteloved my flat share days - Blackwood, Glenelg, London= the making of Muffin Mim, Intrepid Mim, TVR Mimm and lets not forget Tequila Mim.