fierce yet delicate

the best suburb in Sydney

I live in an enormous, crazy terrace house in Surry Hills on my own. The crazy part in the last sentence is more than likely a self-reference.

This massive house, it has four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a backyard. Having a backyard is an unusual added feature in the inner city, but if it's any consolation it's an absolute shithole full of spider webs and cigarette butts. I like the paperbark gum though, it's a nice touch.

In this house, I've got an original 1969 Italian Vespa parked in my front loungeroom. I used to swerve around the backstreets of Surry Hills on it until my motorbike licence ran out. Now it's a fancy stereo holder in the front loungeroom.

I have a reproduction antique couch in my bedroom that I bought earlier in the year when I was in between jobs. I made the mistake of windowshopping on Crown Street with my dad with a shocking hangover. I sat on the couch to stop myself from throwing up in a shop while he was looking for cupboards.

"That couch really suits you" he said, so I bought it.

My friends have a theory that I get a new job everytime I need new furniture. I need a new tv, so that probably had a lot to do with me telling my last job to get stuffed. Or at least something to do with it.

instead of saying: I have turned into a mad cat lady. Thank god my new flatmate moves in tomorrow.

sushi suma

ahh...sushi suma....the best Japanese in Sydney and the best kept secret in Surry Hills.

It's dingy and crowded and never been renovated. I love how someone has to tell you about it to find it. I particularly love how it's sandwiched between a petrol station and a vet. And I love how you're the only whitey there when you go.

Last night, to celebrate my ship coming in, I splashed out $13.50 to stuff my face with raw fish and seaweed. Life doesn't get any better than that.

Oh wait yes it does - a storm with lightening flashes finished the evening off.

Have I mentioned it's summer in Sydney? yay

a little aside to portents and dooms:: part two

That apartment in Elizabeth Bay [see below, portents and dooms:: part two], it tried to kill me.

I woke up one morning surrounded by haze and realised I'd slept through my alarm by a couple of hours. Then I realised my gas stove had been leaking all night and my studio apartment was full of gas. I leapt up out of bed and flung open the sliding door to the balcony and opened all the kitchen windows (there weren't that many).

After taking my first gulps of fresh air in several hours out on the balcony, my first reaction was to panic that I was late for work. I was only twentyone/twentytwo and it was my first ever job, so give me a break.

The thing is though, I was suffering from gas posioning. I had a shower and got changed for work, with the gas still lingering lovingly in the studio apartment. Then I threw up and shat myself and had another shower, and then made it halfway to Kings Cross train station before I spontaneously shat myself again on the street. So I went home and had another shower and got changed again.

Even after all this, I actually went to work. The thought of spending the rest of the day in the shitty studio apartment that nearly killed me, with the crazyfucker on the groundfloor and the lift going up/going down all day just didn't seem worth it.

I got to work about four or five hours late and they weren't very amused. I told them what happened and they said, "Drink some milk, it's a good remedy for gas inhalation."

This probably explains my aversion to the corporate world in more ways than one.

The next time I locked myself out of that studio apartment in Elizabeth Bay I got the fuck out of there. More than likely, I quit my job at the same time and went overseas.

instead of saying: a decade later, I still turn up for work several hours late and move apartments and quit my jobs. But gas is one of the only drugs I don't inhale on a regular basis.

portents and dooms:: part two

I know it's time for me to move house when I lose my front door keys and lock myself out. It's a sure sign that things are about to get shittier than they already are. I always obey my lost front door key superstition, and move out as soon as possible.

This comes from the time when I was about twentyone/twentytwo and moved into a studio apartment in Elizabeth Bay on my own. The Real Estate agent called it Elizabeth Bay, but you and I know it's really Kings Cross and dodgy as fuck. A fairly stupid place to move to on your own as a young girl, but hey I'm like that.

The day I moved in, I was in the apartment unpacking my meagre belongings. It didn't take long, so I went to to the corner store to get some milk and bread, to try and feel normal. When I got back the lock on my front door had been superglued by some crazy who lived on the groundfloor and hated women.

I put my key into the door of my new studio apartment and as I tried to pull it out it just o o o z e d out then stuck there. I was stuck in the hallway on the fifth floor of my new apartment block crying my eyes out.

This was before everyone had mobile phones, so I had to introduce myself to the elderly lady next door to use her phone and call an out-of-hours locksmith.

"Don't take it personally," she said, "He does it to all the new girls who move into this building."

There were no locksmiths available so I called a friend who called one of his friends who was a professional thief. This guy eventually turned up with an impressive black bag full of breaking and entering tools, and drilled through my lock.

"I'd get that lock changed if I was you," he said, "It's really easy to break into."

Then I had to live in that studio apartment on my own - the only noise at night was the elevator creaking up and down the lift shaft. It would go up and down all night. It's still one of the spookiest and emptiest sounds I've ever heard. And all the time that womanhating crazyfucker was living on the ground floor.

instead of saying: to break tradition, I think I'll move house this time before I lose my keys.

portents and dooms

I know I'm about to quit another job when I start catching lots of taxis.

It starts off slow, to a meeting here and there. Then I start taking cabs home from work when I've been working late. Then I start working late on purpose so I can catch a cab home.

I know I've made up my subconcious mind to leave a job when I start taking taxis to work in the morning. It means I can't really be bothered to go at all.

The deal clincher is when I start catching cabs to work in the morning and back home in the afternoon, instead of maybe walking or catching a train. When I start spending a fair chunk of my salary on chauffered, air-conditioned, non-engaging transport, it usually means it's time to call it quits.

It's a sure sign I'm over my job when I start catching taxis.

Next time I'm gainfully employed I'll try and make sure the office is in walking distance, so catching a cab there would be ridiculous. Maybe.

Instead of saying: I quit my job six weeks ago and thank god it's summer in Sydney