Australia. How not to die.

Australia. How not to die.

This is a message for the archaeologists of the future that might find me hibernated in the carcass of a bus: my expression is due to the jet of air conditioning coming from the vent above my head. Before you get the mental images and let rise to assorted conspiracy theories, my dear archaeologists, know that at that moment I was just cursing while waiting to exit the bus at a more than acceptable temperature of thirty degrees. To avoid further misunderstandings, I belong to Homo Sapiens Sapiens and although  my face may look creepy, I am not at all the missing link.

Let’s continue.

This is house research time. The one where I live now has everything I need, it is pretty and in a nice area, close enough to the city, but far enough to feel out of the traffic (really bearable) of Perth. A few steps away I have four cafes and a little further on a jetty from which to enjoy a great view. In short, it would seem a  beautiful place to live.

It has only one flaw: the owner.

With a personality as friendly as a pack of piranhas in a tub, she does everything she can to get  every day closer to that thin invisible line that separates life and death in her sleep (with a pillow crushed against her face). Every day she arbitrarily creates a new rule to be followed:

  • not to use the dishwasher;
  • not to use the dryer;
  • air conditioning should not be used, except in cases of disappearance of Earth's atmosphere. In any case, the remote control mysteriously disappears when the hag leaves and then reappears when the hag returns ( according to the syntax rules I should not repeat the word hag in the same sentence, but it gives me too much pleasure so forgive me here ok?);
  • total curfew after ten o'clock at night, when a complete silence starts, deeper than the one  audible in space (a rule which is mysteriously broken by the same hag at six in the morning every Saturday and Sunday, when she is taken from an urgent and pressing need to water the micro-fucking-garden right in front of my window, or vacuuming, or talking to herself ).

As if that was not enough, the person suffers from a sudden change of personality due to alcohol intake, ranging from antisocial behavior, with peaks of extreme cordiality, which go so far as to make her ask for akward requests, such as to have a hug.

For some time now I have been training at a school of ninjas to learn  how to master the ancient art of the shadow warrior, for me to wait hidden in the ceiling of her room, flattened at the top and in the dark, and then lay my silent fury on those mushy limbs and that  shapeless body.

Not before, however, of making her sign a transfer of ownership and a sheet where she states that she "had enough of the system, I am departing to unknown places, with particular emphasis on the "do not look for me , you won’t find me".

I will keep you updated on this important matter.

In the meantime, I rented a car. Driving in Australia after three years of break and on the other side (unless you count a brief experience described in another post) involves some small additional risk, such as to cause some discomfort to other vehicles.

Nothing serious of course.

Writer wannabe, mojito and absinthe lover, one day I want to see the Earth from space. 

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