elegant slumming

Finding flatmates in this naked city is a pain in the ass. I’ve been advertising and agonising about my profile, waiting around at home on glorious weekends for candidates to show up, making pointless small talk with people from other planets who want a stainless steel box to live in. Its worse then speed dating.

The best disappointment by far was the dickhead who cancelled his visit twice over 2 separate weekends and then had the hide to do a drive by and make the decision not to even view the inside of the house based on what the outside looks like. Ok, so the front garden looks like a war zone with the current porch renovations, but what a wanker. He sent me a text saying “Just went past your place and its not what I’m looking for. Sorry for messing you around. Regards Rod”. Well Rod, I am glad you didnt end up looking at my beautiful home cos I have a real aversion to your vibe and your name. You probably watch a lot of sport on TV and listen to Nova.

I am sure that the best flatmate in the world is just around the corner looking for a big room in a cute house with a cool house mate. But in the interim I’m pretty content to kick back with Peg Peg and watch the wankers walk past with their noses in the air. With FBI crankin loud and clear for all to hear.

p.s: if you or someone you know is looking for a new locale, please see my ad below

http://www.flatmatefinders.com.au/fCandidateSelection7.asp?MID=10188441&SS=2

stranger danger

Whilst huffin and puffin to work on my crappy push bike is my prefered commute, sometimes I leave the deadly treadly at home and take my car.

I drive a 85 Honda Civic with a sticker on the rear window that reads “Muscle Machine: 0 – 100 in 10 minutes” (The geezer who owned it before me must have been a frustrated body builder with low libido) . If I dont drive my car more then once a week the carby seizes up on me and dies at traffic lights. Thus on mornings when I got to bed later then 930pm and had a few bevoirs the nite before, the Muscle Machine gets a run to Lilyfield where I park to catch the light rail to work.

Yesterday on the tram ride back to Lilyfield, I received a text from an unfamiliar number. The message read “You looked rugged up!”. Granted I was swathed in boots, coat and a jolly thick scarf, but it was freezing and I feel the cold dreadfully. Thinking that someone I know is on the tram and playing silly buggers, I spin around and stare down the other passengers behind me. Noone registers. A minute later I get another message: “Bet that scarf is warm…”. Another round of face recognition proves fruitless. Right. Time for decisive action. I shoot back “Show yourself stranger!”. The response takes a little while to filter through “On tram going other way…spotted the hawke eye…going ryde way for nun’s bday…see you sooner then you see me…”. Fuckin riddles to me.

In retrospect I have come to the conclusion that the offender is probably a friend whose number is one of the many I’ve culled from my phone of late. I’m bored of making efforts with friends who don’t wanna hang out with me.