17 March, 2005

make yourself at home... but kindly leave your magnifying glass at the door

Munkey-planet continues its slow, smooth revolution. I know I have settled into bachelor-pad life now, because my flat is an absolute disgrace. It was inevitable, and actually took longer than I was expecting *messymunkey*. However it will only take a half-hour of effort to get the place sparkiling and beautiful again. This is the constant cyle of my life. As per the second Law of thermodynamics, the chaos of my surroundings increases and increases exponentially, until I can't take it anymore. Then with a blood-curdling scream and an obsessive-compulsive shudder, I rally against the inevitable entropy of the universe, and break into a hypomanic state. My activity doesn't cease until my environment once again resembles a picture in a magazine. Sound like a healthy pattern of behaviour? I think so!

Last Thursday night, I enjoyed a dinner with Mr Kenny. He arrived at my gaff and took the 45 second tour, dubbing everything he spied in my home: "interesting". Then we mosied on down to the Public House on Church St where I enjoyed beer, fine food and great conversation, all provided by the generous heart of Mr Kenny. Since I went nuts, fully furnishing and decorating my house, and ending up extremely poor in the process, friends have been taking me to dinner and events in lieu of housewarming presents. *one-step-ahead-of-the-bread-line munkey* A rather fine deal if you ask me!

As we exited the Public House, my eyes wandered across the street and saw: a Pizza place that delivers! Flashback: the first night I moved in - Ms Snazzles and munkey are sitting in my new apartment, desperately trying to find a Pizza place that will deliver their wares to our slothful door. We go through the telephone book that was found on the shelf when I moved in. All the places we call have changed hands, closed down, been pillaged by the Huns, etc etc. This is an old, useless phone book. We walk to Red Rooster instead (ahh the bliss of having RR and KFC both within walking distance!). Flashforward: Standing on Church St, just five minutes' walk from my home - Munkey has found a Pizza place that delivers! We crossed the street to take a menu, and as we begin to cross back: a familiar face. That tall, skinny, slightly creepy man... he was walking up my driveway as Kenny and I left. He must live in the same building! Munkey smiles and nods in casual recognition/greeting. Creepy-man stares with what seems to be a mix of terror and loathing, nods very vaguely and scampers away... hmmmm.

Another friend-shouting-poverty-stricken-munkey event on Friday night, as Ms Snazzles - bless her heart - bought me dinner and took me to the movies. Hurrah! We saw 'Sideways'. It was very good, although I didn't think it was quite the masterpiece some critics would have one believe. Paul Giamatti is quite brilliant as always, and the Academy should all be dipped in hydrochloric acid for neglecting to nominate him for an Oscar. So there.

The newly-discovered Pizza place: Fruscolino! (which must be pronounced with an over-the-top, music-hall Italian accent) was sampled on Saturday night when Ms Snazzles and Madame Mu came round to watch more of 'Spaced' on DVD. What a marvellous series. Only one more episode and I will have seen it all. Are they making another series? O Snazzles, please tell your munkey they are making another series! The pizza from Fruscolino! is good: real Italian style with very thin base and tonnes of cheese. Munkey approves.

On Sunday, Ms Sheila & Mr Ian brought my beloved sibling Ms Cait round for a visit, as patermunkey was toiling away at the MCG (no, he's not a sportsman... he is one of the hoard of worker-ants who are busily swarming over Melbourne building things for the 2006 Commonwealth Games). Ms Cait made sure to inspect my cupboards and fridge, to see what I've been eating / doing... but regretted later that she had forgotten to go through my GARBAGE for more information! The future career opportunities for a girl with a mind like that are tantalising to consider.

Ms Andrea came for a visit on Monday afternoon, but unlike my sister did not feel compelled to inspect the house for evidence of my daily activities. Come to think of it, during his visit, Mr Kenny also took a look at the few dishes stacked in my kitchen and declared (correctly) that I had had toast for breakfast that morning. Why do people feel that detective work is necessary when visiting my new place? My life really isn't that interesting! If there were mirrors with white smears and razor blades lying on the tables, or passed-out hookers strewn among the furniture, I could understand the intrigue... but really! What's so intriguing about little old me? Nuthin.

On Tuesday I ventured back to my dear family home for a lovely roast dinner prepared by patermunkey. I would like to say the place is falling to pieces without me... that the very bricks are crumbling from the walls, the pets have given up eating, the garden has withered, the neighbours weep and beat their chests every time they return to the neighbourhood to find me absent. But alas, all seems well. Although my beloved father has seemingly managed to destroy the family computer by deleting what he believed to be something of mine, but in fact contained a whole bunch of essential config.sys files or something. Geek-Speak is all Greek to me *technophobe-ironically-employed-as-a-network-administrator munkey*... but the bottom line is, the thing is fucked and is now taking a trip to Mr Fix-It. Huzzah for my very own computer, onto which I copied everything of mine from the old family pc, before patermunkey got busy with the delete button.

As for the creepy man who lives in number 13 (13... spooky!) I have seen him at least 10 times... rather strange considering I've only seen any of the other tennants about twice if ever. Mr 13 doesn't seem to work or own a car, but he always happens to be arriving just as I leave, or vice versa, or we arrive at the same time and have to endure the awkward walk up the stairs together. Still I make my attempts at low-key friendliness, but he maintains his terrified-angry-rodent persona, smiling half-heartedly and nodding uncertainly before he scurries away. It's got to the point where I'm certain that one of us is stalking the other, but I'm honestly not sure which is the psycho and which is the terrified victim.

More news as it comes to hand, my friends.




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