I call it my Hidey Hole, or my little bird’s nest. You enter on the ground floor from the front
of the building, but look out the back window from the first (or second,
depending on your nationality) storey.
The view is of the garden and a scattering of palm and gumtrees, with
windows and the backsides of other apartment buildings visible behind them.
The place has wooden floors and smells like a cottage. I think this has a lot to do with why I keep
waking up with a contented, on-holiday sort of feeling. The ceilings are high and the early morning
sun pours in the window that stretches the entire length of the back wall. It’s very quiet, apart from the mysterious
dripping noise that emanates from the bathroom without any visible evidence of
a leak, but I pretend that’s rain dripping out the gutters and it doesn’t
bother me. There’s a little kitchen area
with an electric stove and an oven that I don’t have to start by using a
lighter and sticking my arm in. I am
entirely honest when I say that this alone makes me feel like I am living the
life of luxury.
I have everything in here that a girl needs in life: a bed consisting
of both a mattress and a bedframe, a
desk, a breakfast table that matches my floor, and most importantly, a beautiful
piano.
People have been asking whether I might get lonely in here
by myself or claustrophobic living in such a small space. To which I respond: (1) no and (2) nope. I like small spaces. I am the kid who used to make a little hole
at the back of her closet, hidden behind the clothes, then close the door and
curl up with a stack of books. Bird
nests are safe and cozy.
And I like being by myself.
As much as I enjoyed my housemates on Darley Street, or at least the
ones who weren’t busy trying to get us evicted, man alive do I love being by myself. There’s nobody to leave secret puddles of
water all over the bathroom floor and nobody to splatter the stovetop with
oil. There’s no one clogging up the
fridge with veg they’re going to leave to grow mouldy, losing the tops to the
good lunch containers, or putting beer bottles in the freezer, then forgetting
about them so they explode and make everything taste like beer for weeks. There’s certainly nobody leaving the
dishwashing sponge sopping wet in the dirty sink, because that’s nasty, man. All in all, I wouldn’t say the place is
surgically sterile, but if I were using something stronger that Woolies’
homebrand domestic cleaner it would be pretty close.
It’s been chilly and wet all day today, and I’m listening to
the wind rustling through the trees as I write this. The more blustery it is outdoors, the cozier
it is in a bird’s nest.
I just disposed of another dying cockroach, though. It’s still Australia. Might give the place one last scrub down
before bed…
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