There's this thing called Apartment Amnesia, I don't know if anyone else gets it. My sister stupidly entrusted me to go check out this apartment that I'd found in the paper and fill out the application, entirely on my own.
Miracle of miracles we actually got the place, so she asked me to describe it to her and draw a rough floor plan. Somehow I got it into my head that there was a normal bathroom plus an ensuite. I saw things that were not there.
This kind of thing happens to me in department stores. Depending on which entrance I come in by, a door or a lift or an escalator, it looks like a completely different floor and I get disoriented and bewildered. So I think I got loopy from pacing the circuit between the bathroom, the master bedroom and the laundry, all those interconnecting doors, the whole time chanting "Fuck we can't afford this, anyway he'll give it to that lovely rich looking couple, coz we are just kids and I don't even have Rhiannon here to look glamorous ooh look a dishwasher."
"So does it have a dishwasher?" Rhi asked me three days later.
"No it doesn't, sorry."
"What about a clothes dryer?"
"Are you sure? Those apartments usually have a wall-mounted one."
"No, no dryer. But there was definitely two bathrooms! Woohoo!"
So when we picked up the keys yesterday morning, my sister saw the place for the first time.
"Well whaddya know, there's a dishwasher and a dryer."
"Oh, so there is."
"And how do we get to the second bathroom? Is there a secret entrance inside the wardrobe?"
"I guess I must have dreamed up the second bathroom."
"You dickhead!" She didn't stop cackling for a full ten minutes.
Rhi also entrusted me to arrange a removalist to do the Heavy Stuff. We're lugging all the little things ourselves. Anyway, I went through the Yellow Pages and this company because they looked affordable. However, most people would never choose any company that had a U in their company name instead of You. We Move U. Oh U really do, baby.
Anyway they showed up in the filthiest old truck you've ever seen; peeling paint, balding tyres and a yapping fox terrier in the front. The removalists looked like they'd been plucked from the crowd at Summernats, dressed in short shorts and thongs (as in the SHOES, you foreigners) and grotty singlets with that long Rapunzelesque armpit hair that only guys in grotty singlets seem to cultivate.
But they were friendly and very efficient, hurling our crappy furniture into the back of their truck in a very short time. When we arrived at the apartment building, it was clear there was nowhere for them to park. So they ever so casually threw the truck into reverse and barelled over the nature strip, grazing the gardens and stopping just inches short of the mailboxes. What they lacked in class they made up for in strength and speed.
It was nice to let someone else do the grunty part of the move. But now we're on to the little shitty things, clothes and books and kitchen crap. If anyone gets bored and feels like walking up three flights of stairs repeatedly, give me a yell!