I wrote a house hunting post before. Except I was house hunting in Brisbane then and this time I am house hunting in Sydney. Except I know virtually nothing about Sydney. I was two seconds away as to inquiring the availability of a room in Kincumber.
Kincumber! It’s on the freaking central NSW Coast. And it’s called Kincumber.
There was an ad for a man to share his one bedroom studio apartment. Apparently if I wanted to bring a friend or two to live there that would also be fine. And hey, rice was included in the rent. What could possibly go wrong?
I will tell you. Life. Life could possibly go wrong. My will to live in close proximity to a man who is willing to use rice as a form of currency could go wrong.
I haven’t lived in a sharehouse environment with people I do not know for years but my very first experience started off because I didn’t know the city (the Gold Coast) and because I was willing to use a place based on how pretty its name sounded.
Parkwood. I like parks and I like wood. This house hunting bizzo was a fucking breeze! Wrong.
Parkwood is a suburb on the Gold Coast inhabited by witness protection refugees, Dodgem car operators and the criminally boring. Sounds like I just made all those up doesn’t it? No. Those are just the people I shared the house with. My first ever house.
I was 17 at the time and found living with these diverse folk initially quite interesting, especially when the young girl told me she was on the run from her boyfriend who had impregnated her before trying to run her over in his car. Awesome. Hey, let’s never be home at the same time ever again.
There was a lovely Korean chap called Doohan who never spoke but brought home, and insisted I eat, Hungry Jacks every Tuesday. Just Tuesdays.
Witness protection lass then shacked up with a Carnie who could muster all the inanity at his command to detail to me the mechanical nuances of both the Dodge ‘em cars and also his sexual encounters with vaginas.
Incidentally, this was where I first developed my terrible rum-drinking crutch which was a swift punch to the brain, rendering me with the almost super human ability to listen to the stories of CarnieMan and his physiological prowess in talking about female genitalia.
We also lived with our landlord Ingrid who, at age 60-something, was fresh on the dating scene with pocket fulls of cash and the optimism of a turnip asking for a home loan.
No man was ever good enough for her, so she said, but I have serious reservations that she ever met a man. Anybody who abuses leopard print like that deserves to be in court, in my opinion, and would certainly have trouble finding any partner who was not an actual leopard themselves.
The house was just a few steps away from the salubrious Parkwood Tavern which was a known bikie hang out and a tremendous place for a 17-year-old to visit while gambling, smoking and drinking all at the same time.
I once witnessed a bar fight of such terrifying proportions that more stools were broken there and then than on the Titanic itself as it smashed into the ocean floor. It was like those who were engaged in bar fighting had read the Bar Fight Handbook for Dummies and studiously borrowed absolutely every cliché in it. Pool cues broken over heads that look like arses? Check. Stools cracked over backs? Fuck yeah.
Confronted with the same situation I daresay I would throw billiard balls while yelling ‘shoo’ but this is also more than likely why I’ve pursued more dainty hobbies.
So here I am, having settled in my own comfortable existence, up-ending my life, and heading to Sydney and the unsettling bosom of house-sharing.
For those who don’t know I’m taken up a position as News Editor for the magazine and news website Mamamia which is making all this stress and worry far more than just worth it.
I leave in a week. Wish me luck.