Going south

I’m heading to Canberra tomorrow morning – haven’t been there this year I don’t think. There’s not that much reason to, frankly, but I do feel a bit guilty that Mick spends all that time on a coach to Sydney every fortnight, cute backpackers or no.

Mick’s getting his flat ready to sell so I thought I might at least lift the odd box – nothing too heavy, of course – and provide the occasional piece of advice on paint finishes.

I will also dack him at any given occasion (he doesn’t wear underwear at home).

Anything to precipitate our move away, to be honest. I’ve had enough.
My rent’s just been jacked up by almost 20 per cent and I’m barely getting by as it is.
During an economic meltdown, no less!

Work has been improving at least – a few extra days covered next month’s rent – and I can confidently say I can ‘apple-shift-G’ with confidence.
There’s a lovely new bloke – British, forties, straight – who is struggling with the computer system like I was. I am actually now being asked questions! He’s also been kind enough to give me a lift home a couple of times – a limousine by comparison to public transport. It was the first opportunity we’d had to talk at length; the work atmosphere in general is occupied and/or headphoned, albeit punctuated by the occasional trill of queeny glee (that penetrates anything).

It was a pleasant change and we happily chatted about the day at work, the soulless, distinctly grim nature of the new apartment suburbs springing up in south Sydney that passed us on our way north, global financial debacles and our future dreams.
Then he asked me what else I did…


A Canberra motel.

Real Estate 101

Mick and I went to Maitland about a month ago so he could find a house to buy. We stayed at the Metropolitan Hotel, fab deco pub full of afternoon alcoholics; i.e. no drunken teenagers and few clues to our real relationship; this was eventually unravelled by a soon-to-be-cancer-widow who was blowing her hubbie's money on the pokies. She also took her wig off at one point to illisutrate her owb battles and point out that, whlie we're gay and perhaps inclined to trouble, we ain't seen nothing.
Anyway, our days were spent in Mick's car, having gathered the addresses for potential homes.
Some were dismissed purely on the terms of the feral neighbours we drove past or the general sense of ‘floodiness’.
Maitland’s a little floody.

Anyway, we found the perfect little three-bedroom cottage – circa 1870 –eat-in kitchen, toolshed, double garage, chook enclosure, too good to be true.

The ever-so-helpful souls at Tony Cant Real Estate are apparently still failing to tell people that the place is fairly riddled with white ants:



Lucky Mick didn't post that deposit check.
We’re still looking..

Well hello! #2

It was a very Oxford evening.
I hadn’t planned to stay, but various friends emerged and beers were bought and visits to the smoke-in wardrobe led to sundry introductions and inevitable peril.

I was happily chatting to Shane from Brisbane, whom I’d met an hour or so ago – he was a headhunter for mining companies or something – when a group of four elegantly barge into the space, one queen in particular catching my eye. He had an imperious air and a hairdo that was an unsettling – a possibly non-ironic– toned-down Flock of Seagulls tiered bowl-job. In his twenties, you know.
He turned out to be such a cunt I fully expected a Linda Blair’s face to appear on the back of his head every time he flicked his gaze away. He had two friends rapt in laughter and one aplogising to me on his behalf.

My last words to him were “see you soon” and I believe he said “can’t wait”. I caught a cab home.

Sorry I’ve ignored this blog by the way.
More to follow shortly.

I lost my camera - it's hampering.

Here’s an old shot of a bloke I haven’t seen in years who was always at the Oxford… no more.