wherein I blog again and the internet is finally connected

A backdated series of entries from Week One in what Anne and I are calling Lady M.

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Saturday

Today I moved into M street. The house is enchanting in an incredibly ‘shabby chic’ fashion (emphasis on shabby). A mishmash of architectural styles – art deco patterns on the ceilings, giant Marvel characters scrawled in biro on the baser block walls of the downstairs studio space, paint jobs from every tenant and every decade and the rippled glass and white window frames from the post war workers’ cottage (which I suspect was the original design). I even went to lifeline and bought a wardrobe from the 1920s and ‘50s vanity and drawers.

I love it. It is making me happy, even though it lacks a certain crisp to the corners. One thing it doesn’t lack is spice. Anney has brought more spices than Coles stocks, including bacon flavouring bits and popcorn seasoning that has made many people very excited. I am happy in a house with many and varied spices. I am so glad she’s moved in.

Monday

A divine walk to work – a tad sunny and given the Brisbane weather extremes, just hot enough to use the sunbrolly – and just long enough that I might one day walk up the hill behind our house without panting.

Tonight, should I have wished it, there could have been a grand cookup, but instead, I bought Subway.

Tuesday

One should walk 23 minutes per day, according to Steven Fry. The weather is steaming tonight. When does he expect me to do my 23minutes I wonder?

Thursday

I had started to make the macaroni cheese – but was interrupted by phonecall from my parents:

PARENTS: where are you, our little cherub?

ME: well, at my home. That place to which you banished me after that big fight we had and after which you said I couldn’t live at home with you ever again.

PARENTS: but why aren’t you here?

ME: I felt that was fairly self evident.

PARENTS: no, we’re at the curry connection waiting for you. Why aren’t you here? You were told last Thursday. You should be here if you want curry. We will pick you up.

This was a positive experience on so many levels.

Friday

Tonight was mum’s exhibition. I felt very elegant, but also very judgemental and very self righteous. I tried to hide it behind the chipper exterior of the general patina of awesomeness. The works looked striking in the gallery and though she didn’t sell out in the vernissage, she had a heap of approval, a small wealth of works bought and a bevvy of positive reinforcement – especially one lady, a return buyer, who bought two works to offset her raging exccentricitieees… (it is about this time I fall asleep!)

Moving House 1

This has been written over a couple of days - as moving house is rather distressing and needed documenting, but quite sapped all my vigour.

It's six twenty five in the morning and I am sitting on my bed surrounded by too many boxes. There is a problem. All these boxes contain books. Underneath these boxes are my other belongings, but I can't box them because they're under the books. 

Am going to ask the help of professional movers to make this transition. Last year I broke a stack of ribs because of ill-considered lifting and most of my family and friends conveniently have had horrid back pain at some point this year.

And besides, I am practically an adult now. Certainly mostly-employed, at least, and it is only a civic duty in these economic times to make the stretch to hire flex movers who pride themselves on furniture removelists that "are fully trained, hardworking and enthusiastic".  They are also advertised as all "under the age of 25, extremely fit and genuinely enjoy moving houses."

I wouldn't want someone who didn't enjoy his job.

I'm excited about the potential of this house. And a bit worried about what state I'm going to find it in. I move in on Friday. Friday afternoon, after work. That's when my stuff will (hopefully) be delivered.  But I can't put anything out until I've at least cleaned the place and turned the electricity on. I'm feeling a little bit overwhelmed about organising all that before the move date. 

Thankfully, it's very likely Anney will be my lady lodger - and she's very good with a broom, so I am led to believe.

It's now Saturday.

Anne and I are set to explore the garage sale potentialities of Indooroopilly - all those middle class students moving house and what not. This is very exciting. I have visions of buying distressed and rustic (it needn't be both) hardwood wardrobes for an ant's of the price, and discovering ancient oriental throws  to toss over the backs of chairs and sofas.

Today I will also Finish Packing. I have been beastly lazy. I have books still  to fit into boxes - not to mention the rest of the shit I own.

Moving house seems to me a cluttered and impulsive business - nothing can be planned because the house moving gods don't seem to both reading the plans we lay.  And I'm not really sure what has to happen next.

Thankfully, we found out yesterday that the electricity is already on.

in which the blog starts with a general complaint... from here it can only get better.

I used to keep a journal religiously. I have volumes of diaries in my cupboards at home and innumerable posts on my old livejournal account and yes, I've somewhat fallen off the proverbial wagon in recent years.  

But it's a friday evening and I am on the cusp of turning 26. I have noticed my once attractive pot belly is turning into a bit of a keg, and I have just this morning been officially given notice that I must Move Out (after my over-reacting and emotionally excessive father and I argued last night about... the news).

My birthday picnic is tomorrow - and after a full two months of blue skies and brilliant balmy sunny afternoons the forecast is for either more dust or rain. Perfect timing, Mister Subtropics. 

There are mozzies biting me in abundance and I have a sniffle. 

I've also found a beautiful little shabby house to rent but it'll cost me more than $300 a week.  And did I mention that thanks to Education Qld the likelihood of my getting any sort of teaching job with holiday pay this year is practically naught. Meaning I'll have to find a casual job over the Summer.

So they're my complaints.

Maybe this was why I gave up writing a diary. It always ended up a grand self-involved postulation.

It's my birthday tomorrow and I am well disappointed with it all. I wish it could be Sunday already.