At least it wasn't raining yesterday evening, and lucky I decided to pick up a california roll on the way home as dinner was an al fresco affair on the back veranda.
It's an old house, and an extraordinarily shoddily built one, as all the houses are in the street, just little poisonous fibro cottages built on brick stilts on earth they never even packed down (I was an adult before I knew that was kind of important) all thrown up on reclaimed swampland so everytime the water table rises or falls the houses in this estate wobble and tilt and tip and crack and they'd all be condemned outright except that the council is loathe to accept any fault, having ok'd them (and no doubt taken a great deal of backesh in the construction process) so it's all status quo.
Anyway, when I finally got in I found the notorious bathroom door and shower stall stall are all in wedged open mode (hi there) so the house had shifted again. Hey, you get used to never being able to put a pen down (roll!), it's kinda like living at sea. It's why I complain about sudden rains of books/dvds from the upper shelves of the bookcases (fling!).
Well, that was part of why I was locked out for two hours yesterday (Himself was out at a seasonal office function).
The other part is that I am no cracksman. Pickpocket, yes (I'm never one to believe in genetic memory but I was surprised to learn that not everyone is born knowing how to pick like a pro), grifter if I let my evil self off the leash, certainly, but cracksman? No. Not unless it involves hammer and chisel or standing lookout (all of which my ancestors had prior experience with, if only we'd had Mr Garrow for the defence, I might have been spared such prohibitive airfares, but that is neither here or there).
The simple fact of the matter is that if a lock requires itself to be jiggled and tickled and twisted just so, then it's as secure as Fort Knox as far as I'm concerned because I cannot jiggle or tickle or twist and turn, not even into my own house, and thus I was locked out for two hours last night. The modern locks I'm okay with, but it's an old house and as the neighbourhood has gregressed, one can see the steady slide downwards with the addition of each new lock, but it was the old, original lock that I could not budge. It simply would not answer to the key. I begged, pleaded, cajoled and burst into tears, all to no avail.
So I went around the back and sat in the late evening sun, dried my tears, read the paper, ate my soggy california roll and the parrots came around, quietly at first, because they know when I'm upset and not to be trifled with (would that humans could be as sensitive) but soon they because restive and wanted their bickies, so I told 'em all to wish very hard, went around the front again and tried, this time with my left hand. That did it. Bastard lock. Had to kick the warped door in a bit, but I did it. In at last. Biscuits for all!
And whoever said parrots don't have wants or needs or names for things. They ask for biscuits by name, and none of those cheap brands, either, thank you. So while most of them demolished the seed bell in the tree one kept asking for biscuit after biscuit but I didn't mind, I needed the company. Made myself several cups of tea. would have had a lie down but there was several days worth of email to catch up on (I knew this week would be tough, but so far it is exceeding expectation).
There is good news though, but I think I'm still embargoed. Nevertheless we had a slap up feed at my favourite cramped and chaotic sushi place. It was packed but they set up a table for us breaking all the laws of health and safety (we were pretty much in the doorway) but it was the best loyalty could do, it really is one of those hole in the wall places that is really great but fills up in five minutes.
So after all that I caught the end of Maverick (Bart and Dandy Jim go camping, oh, er, and prospecting as well, I guess) and the end of Dr Who. Nothing like the soothing normality of Dr Who after a rough day at work (the bullying is really getting to me now).
I should be happy because today White Collar starts, at last. But so far, nope. I guess it's just not the sort of day to raise enthusiasms. More a don't want to get out of bed day.
I'm also a bit concerned as Himself has jetted off to Adelaide for a week, so if you don't hear from me, I'll be stuck in a shabby hotel somewhere, sans net, because my effing house of horrors has locked me out again.
It's probably why I'm refusing to anticipate tv in any shape or form. After previous experiences, I won't relax until the end credits roll (locked out, no cable, tv dying, etc).
And I am having such a rotten day.
At least Himself got to Adelaide and says the hotel room I booked is fine. Probably just being polite. No one ever likes the hotels I pick. I don't mind 'em, but I'm not that fussy. It's like my grading of toilets has precious little to do with marble features, taps and warm fluffy towels. I'm wondering of its indoors or outdoors, if wellies are required, if bodily fluids are dripping from the ceiling, if a shotgun is required to see off dangerous wildlife, etc. This is my base line. So long as it works, it's fine, and ahead of the one at work, in that case. At my old office, the ladies were outside in a demountable in the courtyard. Byo brolly when it rained. And winter, oh how that brought childhood memories back of ice cold seats.
So yes, complete hillbilly. Do not let me book your accommodation, ever. Well, not if you're squeamish about lizards or frogs, at any rate.
Is it going home time yet? I've had it. Just had it.
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