If my writing seems a bit flustered at the moment, it’s because that’s the kind of feel and flow of my life right now, lots of things are flopping on top of each other all over the place and it’s hard for any of them to get a look in edgeways.
Busy would be about on par as far as adjectives go, I’ve been dragging my ever-sorer body around to social gatherings in the midst of Uni, organising moving house and all manner of other distractions. The most recent good news however is that we’ve found a place to move into, so I can finally give up my habit of enviously eyeing off fridge and washer packaging on the side of the road in the lead up to an accommodatory crisis. So myself and Katy are moving a little closer to the river and a little closer to the city in an old-school planned pad in Maylands, complete with high ceilings, chubba rooms and the added modern convenience of blessings like ducted air con and gas water heating. So it’s all good, and not a moment too soon, considering the current house of rock has to be cleaned and vacated before Monday morning.
Of course none of the cofuffle has managed to interrupt my riding schedule, and I managed to get out for a blat on Wednesday night as well as a day trip on Sunday with some friends up to Lancelin to go faff about on the dunes and ride a bus. And when I say bus, think yellow school bus, then tack it on top of a monster truck drivetrain being hauled along by a four hundred cubic inch Chevy V8. So after driving off the tops of dunes that decide to suddenly drop off at sixty degree angles, being thrown around like bobble-dogs and routinely fearing for our lives, we stopped to do some sandboarding down said dunes and then hooning back again to the carpark, which involved a seemingly close encounter with our eourmous mechanical host sand-drifting towards a somewhat substantial fence. Much terror was had, but one must see the inherent humour in the fact that fifteen motorcyclists could’ve suddenly died in a yellow school bus with their collective last words being a booming chorus of “you look so fine that I really wanna make you mine”.
And even after being worn-out, burnt to a nice crispy finish, getting sand in places I didn’t know I had places and it deciding to rain on us on our trek home, it was a cracker of a day. I also managed to get along to Stuart’s bucks night on Friday and Luke’s engagement party on Saturday night, so when my Monday morning came, I was well and truly rogered.
Saturday was a new experience as well, after our regular play rehearsal space was commendeered by an art exhibition (and its accompanying paint fumes), we checked out a park before relocating to one of the home of one of the actresses, who, coincidentally turns out to be the daughter of the United States consulate. So after getting through boom gates and being eyed off by burly men with large guns, I was drawling out my bad cockney accent in a three storey villa opening onto kings park and the most fantastic view of the Perth skyline and the Swan that you could ever hope to see with your feet on the ground.
Thankfully it turns out that Steve is still alive, despite having ready access to automatic firearms. And on the topic of survival, my little sister is going to be married in under a hundred hours time. Spending the rest of your life bound to another person. Me, I have trouble deciding socks in the morning.