Thursday, 6 January 2011

Another post

This is the story of how I came to forsake the rosy loo and greeny walls of my once and former spinster pad for la-la-la-la-la Lalor!, Peoples' Republic Thereof, and one of the finest (you know) three-bedroom 1968 brick venereals in town. Now, well may you ask why me and mah posse couldn't find something more interesting to do with our future earnings than pay il Banquo a squillion bajillion dollars in interest, why we couldn't have - I dunno - started up a commercial spanakopita kitchen, why the national obsession with indenturing oneself to Westpac needed us too. Yes, well may you ask.

There is an answer to your questions, and it is twofold.

Fold, the first: when I first moved into my spinster pad, high density housing suited me right down to my faux floorboards. Fifty square metres? Felt more like fifty acres. I could have installed a couple of ponies in the bathroom-cum-laundry. Nosebags in the wardrobe? No problem. But then, instead of ponies, these young people moved in:

They were happy living in the drawer for a while, but soon Harriet took possession of the one comfy chair.

And Beatrice was forced to establish herself in the bathtub.

And then I plighted my trough to this character

who immediately started making biscuits

and before we knew it we were having to stack excess biscuits in the bathtub-cum-storage-trough in the bathroom-cum-storage-space and Beatrice was forced to live behind the kettle. This was untenable.

Fold the second is this rather astonishing letter-box and newspaper receptacle log, made out of genuine concrete eucalyptus stump. I'd say it added a good $15000 to the purchase price of the Lalor quarter-acreage, and worth every penny.


Ann O'Dyne said...

cats ... and cookies ... and concrete containers for mail.
The Right To Own Property is no small thing. rejoice.

Ampersand Duck said...

Wow, almost word for word why I am up-stumps and moving to my own 1965 double bricolage. Just substitute 'bathtub' for 'my bed' and 'biscuits' for 'jam', and we are there, right down to the Westpac serfdom.

Congratulations, I guess you've moved up from Baroness to some higher position?

Ampersand Duck said...

Oh, and also the beard. Beards need growing space.

Mitzi G Burger said...

I once tried living behind the kettle and the steam ruined my hairstyles. A wise decision to up and reconfigure abodenage: especially to make room for a purple, retro retractable lounge. Bless!

Alexis, Baron von Harlot said...

It all comes down to hair, doesn't it. You're right, Duck, beards need space, and you're right too, Burgeress, whiskers need to avoid humidity.

Alexis, Baron von Harlot said...

Thanks for the rejoicings Ann O'D. At least in theory, I've always thought the right to own property once of the least of rights, but this ain't a good town to be renting in, if you can manage not to. What is a fat gorgeous pleasure is being able to plant things, in proper earth, not just pots, and know that I can watch them grow for - Godwilling - as long as I choose.

Alexis, Baron von Harlot said...

Duck again, that is an excellent question about my title. I will have to consult the board. Perhaps as this is a joint affair with a compost heap and everything, I should become Comrade Harlot.