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Acid Tongue - Sydney, Show Me Some Love!

Author: Daniel Crichton-Rouse
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
So I’ve been actively looking for an apartment for the past few months, finally getting off my arse when I received a letter from the landlord saying, “I’ve decided to knock down my house – the one you’re currently living in – so if you’d be so kind as to fuck off within two months, that’d be convenient.” Or something like that.

I started out searching in my desired areas – namely Point Piper or Dover Heights – but a search of ‘up to $200 per week’ came back with a sole car space. And that was only because I had included surrounding suburbs in the search and Bondi, conveniently, is nearby. It turns out you can’t find a lot in those two suburbs for less than both of your testicles per week. It’s probably for the best – I don’t think my neighbours would react too kindly to my knocking on their door in the middle of the night because I’ve locked myself out and need to crash on their Armani Casa sofa.

I broadened my horizons, hoping to find more ships, but I think my lighthouse was still shining too directly onto the wrong areas. Perhaps the tide just hadn’t brought any luck with it. Paddington- Nope. Surry Hills- If you want to live and work with a syphilis-riddled crack whore, yes. Darlinghurst- Don’t swing that way. Leichhardt- That dungeon in the Forum had no windows. No windows!

A stroke of luck came when a friend decided she wanted to move out too. We found a place within a week – a fucking mansion of an apartment in Woollahra – but when we showed interest the estate agent then informed us a requirement of the contract was to employ a house cleaner and that we’d have to assassinate Kevin Rudd by day-break. A house cleaner was totally out of the question so we forfeited our application.

This went on for weeks. If it were a Hollywood film, now you’d be seeing the camera fixated on some flowers, with the months passing by behind it over the course of a few seconds (a la Adaptation). Then last weekend I found another place in Leichhardt. It had the works: new kitchen, new bathroom, appliances, fresh paint, a teleporter to Paris…our happy day had finally arrived! That is, until a family issue came up and my soon-to-be housemate said she couldn’t move out anymore.

Square One. Do not pass Go.

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