I do not mind going without a bed. It’s fun camping on your mate’s couch for a night. I also have no issue with the lack of dining room table, in my post-garage-sale world. Eating off the floor makes dinner an adventure with Aladdin. I am certainly not concerned about having no bedside table; that’s like camping, but with a highly superior mattress.
There is one thing, however, that is harder to swallow.
Fresh out of the shower today I grab a slice of bread. I’m hurrying slightly, anticipating the Vegemite fix. Then it happens.
The toaster is gone. It’s tray, still teeming with years of burnt toast crumbs, sits in its place looking rather pathetic; like a burnt-out car sitting on the side of the road with no tyres.
This must be some sort of sick joke, I think.
Just in time, I recall that nobody wanted our cheap toaster. I duck outside in the rain and rescue it. It lives to burn my toast for one more day.
The moving caper, it’s bizarre.
Yesterday, as Shorn and I were tucking into some medicinal hot chips with gravy, we reflected on the stark house. It is still full of soul, emotion running around the joint as if a ghost tour is about to start.
Without a dining room table, we now have a ballroom. I did some waltzing in celebration. And some head-banging for good measure
“There could be a furniture truck on its way here with all our stuff,” Shorn says. I agree: are we moving in or out?
Hah, nice try. We are furniture-less. There is no truck coming to elevate us from the floor. My water glasses will continue to sit next to the bed on the ground, not at eye level.
We are lucky to have our burnt bread in the morning.
And I’m excited now. Sure, it still pains me to see my roommate’s worldly possessions entering a box. Knowing they will be placed on a shelf far, far from where I will be, that’s the kicker.
But here we are, in the midst of an almighty adventure. And it is fantastic to have a polished dance floor to slide across with socks on for the next two weeks.
Let the dancing begin!