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.