It’s official.

Well, as official as it can be until settlement day anyway.

We’ve purchased a small patch of suburbia; further west than we currently live, but near enough to our current haunts to keep us happy.

After months of looking (and even more months of online researching – how did we cope before online house hunting?), we knew this one was special the minute we saw the kitchen and living areas. It’s light, open, beautifully renovated and surrounded by big, old trees. We can see the (distant) city from the front windows.

We’ve scoped the neighbourhood and worked out what food we can get delivered to our door. Our real estate agent gave us the gossip on the best bakeries and eateries in the area.

We’re knee-deep in paperwork to seal the deal and I feel like we’re in constant contact with our broker and our lawyer. It’s been exhausting, but we’re getting there.

Moving date is scheduled for the next couple of months, giving us plenty of time to declutter, reorganise, chuck, and get our shit together before we make the move out west.

Yay!

I’m still to scared to say too much, lest I  jinx our plans to get into a gigantic debt.

But I need some intervention. Joe, I need your help.

pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough

pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough

pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough

pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough

pleaseletourpurchasegothrough pleaseletourpurchasegothrough

Amen

We’ve lived in our filing cabinet penthouse for just over four years. Do you remember those places you’ve lived in that were more than just home? You know, they were home-home?

Yeah, this is one of those places.

Our penthouse isn’t perfect, though. My long-time reader would remember our 709 days of lounge room water feature goodness. My house guests would know about the 3 uncracked floor tiles in the bathroom. The way none of the window sashes work and we have to use sticks to keep windows open.

Yeah, it’s one of those places.

But there’s still something about it. My in-laws know it, our new neighbours know it. We know it.

For lack of a better word, it’s got “character”.

Which I suppose is the best descriptor for the ornamental tap that’s tacked about 8ft up our backyard wall. It’s been a stuck up there for YEARS, long before the previous tenants moved in.

Noice, isn’ it? Don’t get me started on theories as to HOW or WHY there is a tap so high up on the wall, unattached to any water source. Perhaps someone was enjoying the wakky tobaccy?

For the last six months or so I’ve been feeling a bit… angsty… about our place… I’m going to sound like a weirdo, but it was like the building was testing us, daring us to move out.

Can you tell that we watched the last season of LOST this month?

We’ve been anticipating big, bad, new neighbours, who we thought were going to interrupt the peaceful life we have here in our little urban oasis. But it turns out that they aren’t so big and bad after all. They aren’t renovating straight away and they’re aren’t even going to try to gazump us on our lease when it runs out at the end of the year. That noise you can hear? It’s the sound of my giant sighs of relief.

I don’t want to say this too loudly because I don’t want to upset the building, but we are kinda house hunting… as in, proper, ohmygodletsgetamortgageandkilloursociallives kind of house hunting.

But in the meantime, I can sit in my concrete backyard, bordered by two-storey-high walls, during the 16 minutes of sunshine that we get (on a good day) and enjoy the sun glistening on that damned ornamental useless tap.

And I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet while I can. :)

One of the joys of living in the inner-city is the “wildlife”.

But around here, “wildlife” usually refers to the humans who sport interesting hairstyles, piercings, clothing or pets on their shoulders — the guy who walks around here with a snake on his shoulders WINS every. single. time.

There are lots of cockroaches, of course, and if you’re lucky — rats. But thankfully, my interactions with rats had been limited to one night early last year.

Until two days ago when I was confronted by a dead rat out the back of our place. He looked not unlike this:

which, to be fair, is not a real rat (no, really!). But this crocheted specimen is decidedly more animated than my new neighbour… who I’ve named Rattus.

Anyone else remember The Ferals???

Anyway, Rattus is very much dead, but looks like he’s having a bit of a lie down on his way back to the drainpipe he calls home. No one has run him over yet, and someone’s even set up a couple of bricks near Rattus, assumingly to stop him getting run over (squashed rat would be harder to deal with, surely?).

By Saturday night I was peer pressuring laying bets on someone (who shall remain nameless to maintain their dignity) not having the guts to put a 10c coin on Rattus’ head. Just to see what would happen!

And clearly I have friends who can’t resist a challenge, and by Sunday afternoon, Rattus had a 10c coin sitting on his noggin’:

And then we all placed bets on how long the coin would last. And the answer?

12 hours!

The 10c coin was still there last night, but by the time I left for work this morning, Rattus was broke.

Now, who would be so desperate for money that they’re willing to pinch it from a dead rat’s head???

I’m hoping that the coinage was pocketed by someone who was dared to pick it up… and they deserve WAY more than 10c for the act of bravery/stupidity.

Poor dead (AND broke!) Rattus!