A conversation with the Midnight Cat

Me: Hello, my darling, how are you enjoying the heater here?
The Midnight Cat: Could be warmer. Why?
Me: Well it’s getting late and I need to get some sleep soon.
The Midnight Cat: How does that concern me?
Me: Well, my love, you know what happens when I go to bed.
The Midnight Cat:… [silence] …
Me: So, as I was saying—

At this point The Midnight Cat looked into my eyes, balled up her front right paw, and punched me in the forehead.

Me: Oy! What the fuck was that for?
The Midnight Cat: I know what you were about to say. You were going to say ,“When it’s time for me to go to bed, I put you outside. You know that. Remember?”
Me: How did you know that!?
The Midnight Cat: I’m a cat; I know all.
Me: Yes, you do.
The Midnight Cat: … [purr] …
Me: That’s more like it. Now, as I was saying. It’s getting late and—

At this point she swiped her paw in front of my face, narrowly missing my left cheek.

Me: OY! What did I do this time?
The Midnight Cat:You were thinking it again.
Me: What is this? The Midwich Cuckoos?
The Midnight Cat:No. I'm just that good.
Me: Well cut it out dammit!
The Midnight Cat:You asked for it. Now leave me alone, I’m trying to cogitate here.
Me: Oh no you don’t. Come on! Up with you!
The Midnight Cat: No.
Me: What do you mean, “No”?
The Midnight Cat: I’m actually really quite busy here. Can we discuss this in the morning please?

Shortly after she was put outside.

The video is one I took the other night of her playing with a twist tie. I wish my life was such that I got so much joy from a simple piece of plastic-coated wire.

Feline acrobatics

In my experience, there is no other domestic animal that conducts itself with grace, poise and dignity like a cat does. A cat demands attention when it enters a room; it saunters gracefully as it moves and then has the uncanny ability to look into a human’s eyes and express such total disdain with just its facial expression. Cats seem to be in control at all times, conducting themselves with precision and elegance. They seem to think themselves better than the rest of the mere mortals that inhabit this earth.

Last night I was sitting up in bed watching TV while The Midnight Cat lay curled up in a ball at the foot of my bed, snoozing. As I sat watching, I started absent-mindedly stroking her with my left foot. I slowly stroked her outstretched legs and her tummy. After about five minutes she stirred and looked up at me from her slumber, shooting me the trademark disdainful look that only a cat can pull off. I realised that my absent-minded foot rubbing had crossed the line from appropriate cat patting to an invasive sleep-depriving violation.

Suddenly, with no warning at all, she attacked my foot with her four paws; she grabbed my foot with her front paws and dug the claws into my skin while she kangaroo kicked my heel with her back paws. The action of the kicking forced her body to be propelled backwards across the bed. She was on the edge of the bed. It was at this point that her dignity and grace went out the window as she realised she was going to fall off the edge. Cats can jump effortlessly, leaping from heights that are comparatively huge distances, with that same sophistication they always exhibit; this was not like that. I could see her face when she realised she was going to fall, watching the horror as she dug her front claws into my foot and tried to use her back legs to grab onto the mattress.

I laughed as this graceful little creature, formerly so poised and commanding, fell from the bed and back down to earth where us mere mortals walk so humbly.

One month

This week I’m spending the week at home with Mum & Dad. The plan is to relax and do nothing, except write my speech and catch up on some reading, but experience tells me this is not going to be the case. Anyway, this post is going to be very uneventful; it’s late and I’m tired, but I wanted to say hello and let you all know I’m alive and well.

Things with Janek are going well… I don’t want to jinx it by going into graphic details, so I guess you’ll have to use your collective imaginations. Grin. He’s incredibly sweet, charming and has made the last month fly by on a cloud of grins, double entendre and corny innuendo.

In other news, the Midnight Cat puked on my carpet the other day. So that’s that. More to come soon!

The return of The Midnight Cat

I was standing in the kitchen tonight, after having cooked up some turkey burgers, marvelling at my brilliance. I finally figured out a way to make burgers that fit into my insane dietary requirements: cook 1 cup of rice then combine with 500g turkey/chicken/pork mince, 2 eggs, 1 cup gluten-free (or other suitably low GI) flour and 1 cup of frozen vegies and shallow fry in canola oil. I was organising the washing up when I heard a miaow. The Midnight Cat meandered into the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably.

He made a bee-line to the fridge before rubbing his body against my ankles. Being the cutest cat in recent memory I gave in and got out some ham for him to nibble on. I continued washing dishes and he continued trying to get my attention until fed him more. After the dishes were done I took some dry cups into my room and he followed me and started poking around my cupboards and under my bed; I’m not sure if he was exploring, hunting or both. He found a place in front of my heater, curled up and sighed contentedly.

I left him alone and continued with my chores in the kitchen. When I returned he miaowed for more ham now that it was conveniently located in my hand and not in the fridge. I poured him a small bowl of milk and put the ham and the milk on a piece of newspaper in the corner. Once he had satisfied himself he stalked over the bed and sat on the floor watching as I typed on my laptop. He caught my eye, so I called his name and patted the mattress beside me.

He leapt up onto the bed and started walking over to me. He walked onto my crossed legs and placed his front two paws on my chest, effectively walking up my body in such a way that his head was pressing into my shoulder with all his might. I put my arm around him and cuddled him and he purred and arched his back in delight. He was pushing on me in such a way that I had to lay down to stop him falling off me onto the floor; he took full advantage of this and stood on my chest, purring. He lay down, nuzzled his head into my neck and sighed contentedly.

He’s now asleep on the floor in front of the heater... The Optimist has had him in his room overnight and had no problems, not even being woken at sunrise, so I think I’m going to let him stay in here tonight. It's nice to have the company.

I think Janek is jealous.

The Midnight Cat

I’m determined that the last post tonight will not be negative...

Since moving in The Optimist and I have noticed that our cul-de-sac has a couple of cats roaming around. There is one in particular that I’ve seen around a lot, who is particularly cute and fluffy, that we have really taken a liking to. He isn’t particularly friendly; when I see him in the street I bend down to say hello and rather than being greeted with the cold indifference that only a cat can pull off, he runs away from me. I call him The Midnight Cat.

Incidentally, The Midnight Cat is not the only four-legged animal in our house. Months ago, The Optimist told me that during the night one night he woke and felt a warm weight on his chest. He pushed it off and went back to sleep. He woke up again and heard a scuffling around on his desk; turning on his lamp, he was face to face with a rat. A big one. He then remembered the weight on his chest and shuddered (and while retelling the story to me, he shuddered visibly again, bless him). He spent the better part of an hour, in the middle of the night, trying to get the rat out of his room but to no avail.

The Midnight Cat is so named because he always comes over to our place late at night, walks straight into the house and circles our feet when we are in the kitchen doing the dishes, purring. The Optimist and I have started to give him little pieces of bacon or ham so that he’ll come back because, in The Optimist’s words, he’s “always wanted to befriend a cat”. Also, The Optimist figures that if The Midnight Cat makes his visits more frequent, then the Midnight Rat will piss off and stop jumping on him in his sleep.

The photo below shows The Optimist’s hand, feeding The Midnight Cat some bacon.

Porridge anyone?

This morning I woke up at 1030am, to the sounds to Triple J. I promptly hit snooze. I was woken ten minutes later; and hit snooze again. By 1130 the radio stopped bugging me and by about one in the afternoon, I woke to the sound of my mobile phones beeping because of an incoming message.

After about fifteen minutes, I got up and wandered outside. Two things struck me immediately: firstly, it felt as if the temperature was below zero, and secondly, the entire courtyard was covered in what looked like small white petals. I was just thinking how pretty it looked when I remembered that there are no trees in the courtyard and it’s winter, so if even if there were trees, they wouldn’t have shed their petals.

I put some shoes on and wandered over to what appeared to be the epicentre and discovered, with not a little consternation, that the petals were in fact rolled oats. I wandered back to the house as The Optimist materialised in the back hallway. I looked at him with a look that said, “Dude, have you seen the courtyard?” He looked back, with a look that said, “Yeh, man, I have and fucked if I know what happened!” I nodded slightly in the direction of The Space Cadet’s room and gave him a look that said, “Well clearly it was the Space Cadet, drunk and off his head, doing some kind of primal dance that included rolled oats.” He considered this for a second and disappeared into the house. I followed him and asked if his rolled oats were missing. They weren’t, luckily, so it seems The Space Cadet had the decency to use his own rolled oats in filling our yard with cereal.

And now, with the rain, we have porridge.

The beer bottle symphony

Yesterday morning I woke up and heard strange sounds coming from the kitchen. After a few minutes, I recognised the sound to be someone playing beer bottles. I guessed (correctly) that it was probably The Optimist.

(I’m not sure if this is an Aussie thing or not, but basically you put some water in the beer bottle and blow over the top of the opening to make a sound. If you have different bottles with different amounts of water, it creates different notes. An Aussie beer company made an ad for their beer that shows an entire orchestra playing beer bottles. The video is on youtube.)

Next I heard a guitar twanging in between the sound of the beer bottles. I lay there for about half an hour listening to the weird cacophony coming from the kitchen, wondering what the hell The Optimist was trying to achieve. It was strangely calming though, so I drifted back to sleep for about an hour and when I woke up I heard The Optimist and The Girl From Down The Street talking in the kitchen. I got up and went into the kitchen and found them making strawberry pancakes (not by adding strawberries to the batter, but simply by adding strawberry flavoured milk). As we ate, I was about to ask The Optimist about the beer bottle playing, but he beat me to it and got eight beer bottles from on top of the fridge and set them on the dining table in a line. “Listen to this!” he said enthusiastically, before he sat down and played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. “I even got my guitar down to tune them!”

It was so funny and so cute. His enthusiasm should be bottled.

Three Little Morons

On Thursday night three of The Optimist’s friends crashed here, en route to a weekend break on the South Coast. The Three Little Morons arrived at about 8pm and, after a quick dinner of spaghetti with “leftovers sauce”, played a very drunken game of cards. The Girl From Down The Street joined them and soon the group got rowdy, as drunken teenagers are wont to do.

I was in my room, watching TV, listening to thumping sounds coming through the ceiling above me, as The Morons ran up and down the stairs, crash landing at the bottom, and wrestled in the hallway. I overheard snatches of shouted conversations, in which The Three Little Morons discussed the merits of rooting The Girl From Down The Street and asked The Optimist if he had done so yet (he hadn’t) and why not (because she’s his friend, not his girlfriend). These are conversations that took place in front of her no doubt. I went to bed at about 1am, the sounds of their little party dimly audible through ear plugs.

I woke at 8am, wandered into the kitchen, and was instantly buffeted by the smell of ripe alcohol permeating from the very pores of the walls. A quick glance to the top of the fridge showed me the night’s inventory: two large bottles of vodka, approximately a dozen and a half beer bottles and a goon sack. I got a glass of water and walked outside, where I lit a cigarette. I happened to glance at the meter box and saw a piece of blue fabric protruding from beneath the cover. “That’s odd,” I thought, “I have a shirt that is just that colour.” I looked a little closer and discovered that the fabric appeared to be the average cotton knit of t-shirts. I opened the meter box’s lid and discovered not one but two of my shirts (one still on its hanger) which had, until very recently it seemed, been drying on the line.

I stared in perplexed silence for a moment before extracting them from their dusty sleeping place and, since cleanliness was now a non-issue, put them on the ground outside my room. I walked around the back to the clothes line to see if anything else had gone missing. It had. On first seeing the line it didn’t look like there were nearly enough clothes on it, but I soon remembered I had taken in half the load the night before. There were, however, two empty coat hangers on the far side. I remembered having washed a pink t-shirt, which was not there anymore, and wondered if my favourite white shirt was missing too. I went back into my room and found the white shirt safely ensconced in the dirty clothes basket (where I now deposited the two from the meter box), but no pink shirt.

As I made breakfast, The Guyanan came into the kitchen and I told him the news: “Someone has pinched one of my shirts from the line.” “What!?” he asked, his face expressing his heartfelt concern that someone in our neighbourhood would stoop so low. I told him about the two in the meter box and he stood there dumbly as I spoke.

Later, The Optimist came into the kitchen and I told him what had happened. “Oh, dude, I’m so sorry. I have your pink shirt in my room. Moron One came in last night and he was wearing it and I was like ‘Dude, that’s Dan’s shirt, you can’t wear that!’ and he was like ‘Oh, right, I didn’t know’ and—” I cut him off: “What!? He didn’t know? It was on the washing line!” “Yeah I know, they’re idiots when they’re drunk,” he said, sheepishly stating the obvious, “anyway he took it off pretty much straight away but I’ll wash it for you anyway.” “I can see they’re idiots when they’re drunk,” I said, motioning to the broken sign that I had discovered and thrown into the kitchen bin earlier, “and I suppose it was them who put the shirts in the meter box?” “Ummm,” he said, “I didn’t know about that one.” I told him. He apologised profusely for bringing these morons into our house.

Mystery solved

The toaster has returned. The Guyanan, The Optimist and I were all fairly certain we knew where it was: in the Space Cadet’s bedroom. And sure enough, we were right. I caught him on the way out the other night…

Me: Hey Space Cadet, do you know where the toaster has got to?
SC: Yeh, man, it’s in my bedroom.
Me: Oh, ok. Um, you know it’s my toaster right?
SC: Oh sorry man, I thought it was, like, the house’s toaster or something.
Me: Nup, it’s my toaster.
SC: Oh ok, do you need it now, man? It’s just I’ve gotta go somewhere.
Me: No, not right now. Just put it back when you get home so I can use it in the morning for breakfast.
SC: Ok cool, man, sorry about that.

I relayed this conversation to The Guyanan and The Optimist. When I told them that The Space Cadet was under the impression that it was common property they were dumbfounded that The Space Cadet was under the impression that taking the common property toaster into your bedroom is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. The Optimist asked me what happened to my butter. I forgot to ask him, to be honest, because I too was dumbfounded at The Space Cadet’s logic.

He was in the kitchen, cooking his dinner (though thankfully it was not baked beans) and I asked him what happened to my butter. He replied “Oh I pinched it”. Right. The carton was at least three quarters full. He had asked me if he could have a little to fry some bacon and I said to help himself, but I certainly didn’t mean to help himself to that extent. He offered me some of his margarine but I declined and explained the butter he’d “pinched” from me was special lactose-free margarine, not any old margarine. He apologised and offered to buy me some the next day. Three days later and I am yet to see it.

Mystery solved.

The toaster war

This morning I went into the kitchen to make toast for breakfast. The Guyanan, The Optimist and his Gorgeous Friend were eating breakfast at the dining table. I got bread from the freezer, walked over to the place on the bench where the toaster should have been; it wasn’t there. I should point out that the toaster is mine, not a toaster that belongs to the uni or the house. Upon seeing its absence, I leapt backwards in fashion reminiscent of Basil Fawlty discovering that there is a wall where a door should be. I yelped.

“Where the fuck is my toaster?” I yelped. This seemed to startle Gorgeous Friend who looked at me with a bit of a frightened look. It made him look even cuter. “Yeah,” said The Optimist, “I’ve been meaning to ask you that. It wasn’t here yesterday and I thought you’d taken it to your room.” “No… why would I do that?” “Must have been the Space Cadet. Trying to find a way to spend even less time in the kitchen.”

I put the bread in the microwave and defrosted it in preparation for making a sandwich. Once it had defrosted, I opened the fridge to get the butter and an egg-and-mayo spread. For the second time that day I yelped and did the Basil Fawlty leap.

“And where the fuck is my butter!?” The Guyanan, The Optimist and Gorgeous Friend laughed. I sent a text message to my Dad as I ate… I woke this morning 2 discover not only my butter mysteriously vanished from kitchen but my fucking toaster too. I wonder who took it? The Optimist saw it gone yday, thought I had it in my room & said “obviously The Space Cadet trying 2 stay out of the kitchen a little more”. This is war.

Sick cycle carousel, part 3

May will be upon us in one week. With May comes the nine year anniversary of my various illnesses and trials. Last year I wrote a rather difficult post, Sick cycle carousel, documenting the progression of my various conditions, depression, and to a small extent my coming out journey. Below is the next part in the Sick cycle series. You might want to read parts one and two.

It seems that the ending of part two was a little bit too optimistic. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy (and I certainly was at the time I wrote that) but I can’t really say I’m all that content anymore. My back has been a lot of trouble lately, I’m downing drugs at an alarming rate, and I’m still kinda upset about Sister’s attitude in The Talk.

January 2007
After the loss of Pop, life was less sunny. I shepherded in the new year with Liz in a quiet ceremony with sparklers, champagne and Roger Rabbit. I spent most of January with The Beach Crew at Cal’s parents’ holiday house up north and on the Central Coast. My health waxed and waned, I was still popping pain killers left, right and centre, but for the most part I was excited at the prospect of starting at Sydney Uni in March.

February-April 2007
I turned 23 on the first and on the nineteenth we celebrated Pop’s birthday for the first time without him. Then I started uni and met a lot of really intelligent people who intimidated me very quickly. I had classes on three days a week, and as a general rule I was able to make the journey to Sydney at least twice a week. I did well in both subjects, gaining high distinctions in both. I enjoyed my time but the extra stress, walking, and sitting up took a toll on my already fragile health. Many nights I felt trapped, a youthful spirit caged up in an aching, ailing prison of a body.

I met Kate in March and we quickly formed a close bond. Within no time I began to refer to her as my sister, and her son, Lance, refered to me as Uncle Dan. Along with Liz, whom I consider my sister also, Kate is one of my best friends.

The day after St Patrick’s day I came out to Mum and Dad, which was, as you can imagine, a huge burden off my mind. After some initial teething problems, Mum came around; Dad didn’t give a shit from the start…finally I felt more myself in my own home.

May-August 2007
As the realisation that coming out to Sister was inevitable dawned on me, I suddenly suffered a bout of migraines at a rate of nearly two per week. Dr KHS, whom I started to believe was loosing his touch, advised cutting pain meds to see if they were the cause. Within a week or so I knew this wasn’t the case and went back to the normal dosage, however the migraines persisted.
As well as being migraine-prone, I found myself becoming depressed. The reason wasn’t clear at the time but with the benefit of hindsight I can see that it was all related to the intense sense of foreboding welling up inside me about Sister’s reaction. I sought shelter from the migraines and the depression in sleep. I was also struck at about this time that I forget how it feels to be totally healthy. Having been sick for eight years at this point, my last healthy memory was at the age of 14.

I came out to Sister on the 27th of May. We never spoke of it in any meaningful way for ten months. The migraines stopped soon after. The depression, on the other hand, continued. I felt trapped by illness and circumstance, hopeless, locked in a constant battle between my heart and my head.

September-October 2007
As the pain in my legs got worse and worse, Dr KHS switched the anti-convulsant (which I take as it blocks neural pain signals in the brain). I had every side-effect that the package warned against. I was nauseous, my knees were constantly inflamed, I was dizzy, spaced-out and all-in-all did a fabulous Anna Nicole Smith impression. I felt like a lab rat. The pain did go away after some time but the side-effects were way too much to bear. I couldn’t function at all and ultimately after a fortnight I switched back. The pain came back, followed by the vicious cycle of pain-drugs-nausea-sleep-pain. The high dose of pain killers left me in a perpetual haze. To add insult to injury I picked up gastro at some point.

I outed myself to the Family-at-Large by a rather cunning plan involving step cousins, the FAL’s natural propensity to gossip, and Facebook. Finally everyone knew and I didn’t have to lift more than a finger.

We sold Pop’s house. That was difficult.

November 2007-February 2008
I went to a neurologist; it was a waste of a morning. He was an odd little man and he told me nothing I didn’t already know. I did, however, get some stronger pain killers which made like a lot easier to deal with. I also changed anti-depressants from an SSRI (which I had been taking since the age of 17) to a tricyclic, which blocks pain signals as well as stabilising mood. I changed pain killers again and finally had a winner. CTs and X-rays revealed nothing. I started smoking weed to help with the stabbing pain in my back and shoulders. It helped too, it was a lot of fun in fact, but all in all no cause was found, nothing really helped in any permanent way… and so it continued. I struggled to get my head above water for a time but after I found my footing with the tricyclic antidepressant, my mood did eventually even out.

February 2008 onwards
I moved to Glebe into a house full of strangers. The Space Cadet makes life interesting. The Optimist and I are becoming good friends. The Guyanan and The Accountant I don’t have much to do with. Though my depression seemed to be under control, I was suddenly gripped with anxiety at having to fend for myself.

The pain in my back and shoulders continued to get worse; I continued popping pills (and have made a few faux-pas while under the influence…). As I write this, I am doped up and as soon as the effects wear off I will be writing again. Last night I got no sleep. I’m going to a chiropractor or physio on Monday. Someone has to be able to do something.

Life has to be better from this.

Not for the weak of stomach

Though as a general rule I am a very squeamish person, one who cannot tollerate any kind of blood on television (or off television for that matter), I am not usually one to actually dry heave when confronted with something particularly grisly. I’ve always considered this disinclination towards heaving to be my last saving grace in the iron stomach stakes. Until today.

I went into the kitchen today to fill up my water jug and was greeted with the strong smell of the Space Cadet’s dinner as it simmered on the stove. He had left a frypan full of baked beans on the burner, with some kind of very pungent cheese bubbling away in the centre. The smell was rancid. When I first caught a whiff of it, I remember thinking it was rather unpleasant. It wasn’t until I was over at the sink, next the stove, filling up the jug that I felt my stomach constrict as I dry wretched into my hand. I picked up the half full jug and fled the room, trying not to projectile vomit over the walls as I went.

In my room I could still smell it. I put the jug on the table, stuffed a scarf into the gap under the door and curled up in the foetal position on the floor in the far corner humming quietly to myself.

Just the thought of it unsettles me. I am never eating baked beans again.

The last straw

In my room I’ve got a makeshift washing line set up by tying a fluoro lime green cord from an air vent to the wardrobe door, and back up to the other air vent.

I set it up to dry some shirts about a month ago when it rained after I had hung the load out. Now, since it has been raining and generally miserable weatherwise of late, I was forced to do my washing and hang it all inside. I had two shirts, a pair of jeans, a few pairs of undies, three tea-towels, two bath towels and an assortment of socks to dry. I left the tea-towels in the laundry and started loading up the washing line in my room. I started with the heaviest items, the bath towels, at the bottom and worked my way out. The line filled up fairly quickly, so after the two bath towels, both shirts, the jeans and the undies were up I was left only with a few small spaces for the socks. I picked up one sock from the basket and laid it on the line. The wardrobe, in my peripheral vision, started leaning forward slowly, destined to crash into my TV. I removed the sock and righted the wardrobe. I placed the sock back on the line; the same thing happened.

I now understand the phrase “the straw that broke the camel’s back”.

Locked out

By Tuesday night I was feel pretty sorry for myself after The Talk and the ensuing pondering and analysing. Suddenly I realised that my Sister, whom I do love dearly despite our differences, is not going to change her mind or beliefs, in the same way that I am not going to change mine. I knew this all along, of course, but it finally hit me on Tuesday night and suddenly I was overtaken by a wave of melancholy, the likes of which I haven’t seen for some time. I plodded through the evening: cooking dinner, eating, washing up. I did it all silently and moodily. By eleven o’clock I was ready to crash into my welcoming bed, to sleep through the drudgery.

I went out the front for a final cigarette. With all the crap that’s been going on lately—living with the Space Cadet, suppressing murderous rages and whatnot—I’ve been smoking way more than is perhaps generally considered as healthy. But fuck it. Anyway I went out the front and sat on the chair on the front steps, watching the traffic roar past. The sound of traffic has always been calming for me, like waves on a beach. I stood, after extinguishing the cigarette, and reached into my pocket to get my keys out. There was nothing there.

I checked my other pockets, all were equally empty. I remembered putting my keys into my backpack, ready for the next day. I was locked out. I stood for a moment and assessed the situation: I had no keys, no phone, no wallet, no shoes. I swore rather loudly and started the journey around the block, so I could get into the house by the back door, hoping that the door to my bedroom was not locked too.

Arriving at the back of the house my heart sank. The bedroom door was locked too. I went into the kitchen and looked at the benches, hoping that I had absentmindedly put them there while doing the washing up, all the while knowing exactly where they were: in my bag, in my room. Finally I walked out the back to go and find The Optimist so I could borrow his phone. I guessed he was in the common courtyard, drinking and being rowdy (which, I might add, doesn’t bother me one bit except that there have been so many complaints that the housing office has called a compulsory meeting to discuss noise pollution for all residents…not happy about that at all).

As I stepped out the back door I nearly collided with The Optimist, and very nearly scared the shit out of him. (He got me back two nights later: I was standing in the space outside the back door, lighting a cigarette, when he rounded the corner, rather quickly. This made me yelp in a very unmanly fashion and jump backwards, crashing into the two screen doors and coming to rest against the wall, cigarette and lighter on the ground, heart pounding, mouth yelling “Where the fuck did you come from?? Make some fucken noise next time dammit!”)

I told him the situation and he said, very consolingly, “Ahhh shit man, that sux. Of course you can use my phone; you should come over have a beer with us while you’re waiting for them”. I called security and was given an estimate of a fifteen minute wait. I silently prayed that this would be fifteen actual-minutes, not fifteen tradie-minutes, which would see me waiting for two and a half hours (one tradie-minute is roughly equal to about ten actual-minutes.

In the end the security guy arrived after about twenty actual-minutes (or two tradie-minutes) and let me in. I was so awake now after the night’s drama that I took up The Optimist’s offer to go over to the courtyard and have a few beers (or water, in my case) with many of the people living in our street.

It was so nice to spend some time with people who know nothing about me or my melodramatic dramas, especially when they are in varying states of drunkenness. So at least the night had a silver lining, noise complaints notwithstanding.

Queer eye

On Sunday morning I woke at about nine o’clock. After a brief period of being pissed off that I didn’t sleep in when I could legitimately stay in bed until at least two in the afternoon, I got dressed and went off to morning Mass. As I was leaving I went to the bathroom that The Optimist and I share, there to find little smatterings of dry puke on the toilet seat and one of his shirts (also liberally slathered with the stuff) balled up in the corner. I shut the door and tried not to think of it, and left.

(Incidentally, I have yet to find a church around here that has comfortable seating. It is as if the designers of church pews had design parameters that demanded the seats be so uncomfortable as to prevent parishioners from falling asleep during homilies. Or, at the very least, uncomfortable enough that parishioners’ minds cannot wander because they are too busy trying to arrange themselves in such a way that their bums don’t fall asleep.)

When I arrived back home, at about midday, I went back up to the bathroom and this time discovered a book of The Optimist’s, soaked in a redish liquid and caked with little bits of pre-digested food. Stifling a laugh, I took a photo.

(Incidentally, I haven’t been taking my photos of the day over Easter with all the emotional and physical upheaval, but I have been doing so since the first of April.)

At lunchtime The Optimist and his brother emerged, looking decidedly seedy and hungover. I said hello and he grunted and told me this is the first time he has had a real hangover. I congratulated him and asked who had thrown up on the toilet last night, rather than in it. He shrugged and told me the last memory he has is walking into the common courtyard that the residence houses share, before apologising profusely. I told him I don’t care, I only mention it because I laughed when I saw it, and thanked them both for the entertainment value of the toilet, shirt and book combined. He told me he really liked that book too.

The next night, Monday night, The Optimist returned from the supermarket with a green bag full of groceries. He pulled out a bag of plan flour and told me that he is going to make pancakes with it, and marvelled that some people actually by pre-made pancake mix when all you have to do is add flour, milk and egg together in a bowl. Next he pulled out carpet deodoriser and informed me that someone (he didn’t remember if it was him or his brother) had puked on the carpet in his bedroom.

“That’s great, Optimist, but you can’t just chuck deodoriser on the carpet.” I said.
“Why not?” he asked, somewhat crestfallen.
“Well,” I explained, “you have to get the puke out of the carpet first, then you deodorise it. Otherwise you’re just putting it over the top and eventually the puke that is still firmly embedded in the carpet, will begin to smell again.”
“Oh…right…how do I get it out then?”
“Get a bucket of very hot water with a little bit of soap, dunk an old rag and then scrub the carpet,” I told him, “and then rinse the rag in the water and do it again until the stain is gone.”
He thought for a second. Then: “Would a saucepan do, do you think? We don’t have a bucket, that’s all.”
I shuddered. “I guess so, as long as you disinfect it before you use it to cook something.”
“Right.” Though he said the word with some measure of confidence, his face remained steeped in question marks.
“You want me to show you?”
“Yes please.”


After he had boiled some water in his saucepan, we went upstairs. I sat on his bed and watched as he dunked a tea towel in the soapy water, the steam from which carried the pungent stench of vomit, and scrubbed the carpet clean. After that he got the deodoriser and liberally sprayed it on the carpet and allowed it to sink in. With the job accomplished we went back to the kitchen where he promptly poured the brown water down the sink and sprayed the saucepan with disinfectant.

As I was directing him it occurred to me what a Queer eye for the straight guy relationship we have going.

Recent bloodshed

The other day I bought a bookshelf for my room in an attempt to put some order to the piles of books currently occupying the floor space between my fridge and my bed. The shelf was a bargain, $39 and flat packed for my convenience, so I snapped it up at the local Officeworks and lugged it home: “Nooo, I don’t need any assistance, thanks,” I told the boy serving me, “I live just down the road.” But after carrying it for a mere twenty metres I felt every gram of its 8.2kg. Pretty pathetic right?

I opened the cardboard box with a key and removed all its many pieces, sorting the A pieces into one pile, the B pieces into another, and so on. I noticed the little screws were Philips head as I noted that I do not have a Philips head screwdriver, or any screwdriver for that matter, except for the small ones on two pocket knives (one of which is buggered). I searched my room for the pocket knife with the working screwdriver to no avail, adopting the frenzied practice of searching the same cupboards and drawers several times in a vain hope that the knife I was after would materialise solely by my will. Predictably, such a practice failed to turn up the knife.

I inspected the screws once more, considering the best path of action. I reasoned I had several options that I could explore, each with their own unique downside: I could a) walk to Officeworks to buy a screwdriver, however this would probably be very expensive considering I am only using it to put together one shelf; b) walk to Glebe to buy a new screwdriver from the discount store, which would be much cheaper, probably only a couple of dollars, however I was totally stuffed so the walk there and back would not do me any good; c) ask a housemate for a screwdriver, but everyone was out at the time and I am not very patient; or d) use the actual knife in the pocket knife to screw in the screws, which, while somewhat dangerous, was going to get the job done now. I chose to take path D.

I slowly assembled the shelf, using the knife to screw the screws into position slowly and carefully. I soon found that while turning the screws was an easy task with the knife, tightening them was considerably harder—as soon as the screws met any kind of resistance it became very difficult to turn and I was worried of twisting the knife—yet still I persisted.

As I was tightening one fateful screw with the knife, the screw met resistance fairly quickly, far too quick for me to stop the turning action of my hand. As my hand continued turning—the knife not turning anymore due to its newfound obstruction—the blade started to fold itself towards the knife casing, coming crashing down on the second finger of my right hand and gouging a deep gash into its flesh. The deep gash promptly bled like a fountain, dripping on the shelf and the floor.

After instinctively sticking my finger into my mouth, an action whose effectiveness baffles the logical mind, I wrapped it up in a bandaid and looked at my bed for guidance as my finger throbbed. “What now?” I asked my mute bed. “How the hell am I supposed to screw in the screws to make the shelf sturdy, and how, furthermore, am I to use the shelf when the screws are not tightened, making for a very rickety shelf indeed.” My bed, being inanimate, offered no advice. It did its best to entice me to lie down, however, and rest for a bit before worrying about the shelf and/or losing any digits.

I lay down and exhaled at length. Glancing over at my bedside table I saw the pocket knife hiding under a novel, silently mocking me with its proximity to the recent bloodshed. I opened the small screw driver, creating an awkwardly corkscrew shaped tool, and used this to tighten the screws. Bookshelf now set up, I loaded it with my books and DVDs, only to realise I would have to move it once the carpet is steam cleaned. Talk about suffering for small luxuries.

“Christopher Robin, my feet are sore”

Just quickly, before I forget, I felt I should mention this little insight into the Space Cadet's psyche.

The title of this post is something I heard him say this afternoon, quite out of the blue, as he walked past my window. I had until now been only partially convinced that he was talking to himself, hoping against hope that he was just on the phone at all times, even when showering. But this is so bizarrely out there that I now not only worry for his sanity but also worry for my safety because when I see him next I am so worried I will start laughing which will in turn prompt him to beat the shit out of me.

Full house

This morning the fifth and final member of the household moved in. Technically he should be the “first”, I guess, since he was living her last year and has had his stuff stored in his room over the Christmas break. He occupies the room that we had supposed belonged to the alleged Phantom, but it turns out that, while we still cannot explain the shower we heard running late one night, he was overseas at the time.

While describing such an eclectic mix of people to friends I have fallen into the habit of giving them names based on their descriptions and not calling them by their actual names. For the purposes of this blog that works nicely since I don’t have to work out nome-de-plumes for them all that exist independent of reality. So we have (in the order I met them)...

The Space Cadet, formerly known as Dougie, named as such because every sentences he utters includes the word “man” at a ratio of at least one “man” to every verb, making him sound as spaced out as he no doubt is at any given point of time. He’s a friendly enough guy, when not giving me the shits, but I don’t trust him. He has, however, desisted his “ostensible showers” and general shifty behaviour since I ceded the bathroom to him last week, so things are looking up.

Then we have The Optimist, whose room is above mine, the nineteen year old first-year maths/science student who is awaiting tomorrow’s classes with an undying optimism that can only be affected by those straight out of high school and/or those who have never dealt with university bureaucracy. On the one hand it is refreshing to see such bald-faced enthusiasm while on the other I’ve found myself almost jealous of his uncanny ability to make a 9am, Monday morning IT lecture sound appealing in any way.

Next there is The Accountant, who lives upstairs also and never turns off the shower in his bathroom hard enough to stop it dripping (which doesn’t affect me in any way, it’s just that I hate dripping taps). He’s an international student from China, and when I asked him what he studied when I bumped into him in the kitchen on the day we met he answered “accounting, all Chinese students study accounting, don’t you know that?”

And then last but not least is The Brit, so named because he is British. I know this because The Accountant told me so, it’s not that I can place his accent or anything sleuthesque like that. I have literally spoken one sentence to him as I rushed towards the toilet and he rushed towards the front door so I guess I will have to reserve judgement for now. He is, I should add, by far the best looking of the five.

When it rains it pours

On Tuesday night, Sydney bore mute witness to a massive thunderstorm. It was a spectacular show of light, sound and thumping rain on the parched earth. I’ve always loved thunderstorms; their power and beauty has always mesmerised me. Until Tuesday night.

I was in the shower when the storm hit. I didn’t pay any attention to it, it was just a storm after all, but after a thunderclap that sounded like a small office building had imploded I decided I should get out of the shower and go downstairs to unplug my computer and TV so that they didn’t transform into unrecognisable lumps of molten plastic and circuitry. On the way through the kitchen I noticed that there was a leak coming from the top of the window frame, so I mopped up the water that had already spewed forth and put a pot under the drip to prevent any further wateriness. I smugly smiled to myself, secure in the knowledge that the kitchen bench would last another day, and went to my room.

As I walked into the room I was relieved to see that only a little bit of water had sprayed in through the open window (behind the TV of all places). I was about to get another towel to mop this up when I felt a drip on my head. I looked up and saw another leak coming in through the top of the doorframe. One more pot later and I again smiled smugly to myself that I had averted an aquatic crisis.

It was at about this point that I noticed something shimmering on the walls in one corner. Upon closer inspection I was horrified to discover that there was a veritable waterfall cascading down the brickwork from in between the wall and the cornice and that water was also spluttering in through an air vent. I frantically moved the piles of books that were on the floor as they were getting soaked (in lieu of a bookshelf to sit my books on, I implement a very technically advanced system of piles on the floor). I grabbed still more towels—four bath towels in fact—and lay them over the carpet to try to soak up some of water that had already soaked into the flooring and to prevent any more water from getting through. Since the water was running down the walls, there was no way I could put pots until the drips so I had to basically watch and wait until the rain stopped.

Two days later, Thursday, a steam cleaner was sent by the powers-that-be at the university to clean the carpet and draw out some of the trapped moisture for me. Not three hours later a torrential downpour again enveloped the city, so when I got home on Thursday afternoon I again found a very soggy carpet but thankfully no soggy books.

A plumber was sent over to have a look on Friday. At seven-thirty. AM. I was not pleased and he is only lucky that he’s cute otherwise he may have been met with a much nastier reception at that time of the morning. He has hypothesised that a hole in the gutter has caused water to gush down the wall from the top floor and as it passes my room it seeps through the bricks into the ceiling. Sounds reasonable to me but I won’t be putting anything in that corner for a while I think.

Doug and other anxieties

The week has not come to a peaceful conclusion.

Catch your breath,
Hit the wall,
Scream out loud,
As you start to crawl
Back in your cage
The only place
Where they will
Leave you alone.

Doug, the amiable bloke next door who appeared to be “quirky” on the first day, “a little strange” on the second and “downright weird” on the third has devolved into the housemate from hell by day eight. My theory (or which I am 95% sure) is that he is doing some kind of drugs and that the showers he takes aren’t showers at all, but in fact just him turning on the water to ensure I do not enter the bathroom while he does goodness-knows-what as he talks on the phone (and at times, yes, to himself) or lies on his bed (presumably) with the door to the bathroom open to ensure good ventilation for the smoke that would otherwise stagnate in his shoebox of a room. I know this because I can smell the smoke, I can tell he’s in his bedroom when he’s talking on the phone as the shower runs, the fact that he flushes the toilet while the shower is running, and the fact that the shower curtain doesn't move from one shower to the next nor does the shower head, which was pointing at the wall at one point. Last night the shower was running for an hour and a quarter and while it was only around dinner time, and hence not sleep-disturbing, it was still pissing me off nonetheless as I sat in my room watching TV and dwelling on all the strangeness in which I now find myself. I should point out, by the way, I have no issue with drugs being consumed. If he wants to take them then he is big enough to look after himself. It is the being woken at all hours by running water and the fact that by the time night falls there is not any hot water left that I take issue with.

There have been other incidents and evidences that indicate he is a few cards short, however I doubt that any of them would actually hold up outside of my circle of friends. I don’t want to complain because to be honest I just don't trust the guy not to hit me or set my room alight or something of that nature. Dad suggested encouraging him to think of the room as a shoebox in the hope he makes a move himself. This isn't an entirely ridiculous plan since the room is, and I promise I’m not exagerating, the same size as the laundry at my parents’ place.

This afternoon I decided to move my wardrobe in front of my door to the bathroom in an attempt to muffle the noise of his ostensible showers and his awful music from wafting unbidden into my space.

Locked inside
The only place
Where you feel sheltered,
Where you feel safe.
You lost yourself
In your search to find
Something else to hide behind.

So tonight, as I was attempting to go to sleep, I was dwelling on this issue and some others that have been on my mind during the week. As a consequence, I had an anxiety attack. It wasn’t pretty. Since the bad trip, I have had another major anxiety attack apart from tonight’s so I am a little worried, to be honest, that this may be a new and interesting symptom of something else under my medical belt. After I calmed myself I tried once again to fall asleep but my mind obstinately returned to the issues that are worrying me as I felt my pulse quicken and my breathing became shallow.

You don't know why they had to go this far,
Traded your worth for these scars,
For your only company.
And don't believe the lies
That they have told to you. Not one word was true
you're alright, you're alright, you're alright.

As some of you may already know, anxiety (and at times depression for that matter) has the uncanny knack of warping one’s thinking to the believe that ultimately if one cannot do or have something, that the world will end and one will die a horrible, nasty death (at least in my case, since on a good day I am petrified of death). The idea that everything can (and in all likelihood will) end in disaster is paralysing. I turned on the light and the laptop and decided to write a little about it in order to prevent it...it’s worked too, I feel much better. I realise that the things I’m worrying about haven’t gone away and that I still need to do some legwork to fix things up, but at least I can do it calmly, without fear of apocalypse or an untimely death.