Something had to go during the semi-hell of eviction, house finding, packing, moving and cleaning – and that something was theatre.
I've missed so much, but you really wouldn't have wanted me there because I would have been wearing my moving trackie pants and t-shirt and it's best that we never discuss the state of my hair at the moment (let's just say, I now know what my natural colour is.)
Ten years of mess was something to clean, and according to to what came off the floor, my gorgeous deco flat near St Kilda was held together by 5c coins and black spiders. I knew I had lots of Daddy Long Legs (and like them), but am amazed that anyone survived a night there after discovering who was really at home in the cracks.
I still have a bit to do (and some real work) and have to deal with the unpacking, but next week I'll be back. Meanwhile the computer hasn't made it into the office (boxes) and I've yet to sleep in the bedroom (boxes and piles of clothes). If anyone is running a book on how long it takes me to unpack, I'd start at two months.
And THANK YOU x millions to my friends who helped with car loads, hugs and didn't comment on how I looked over the last couple of weeks.
PS: I'm no longer an inner-city, south-side, latte drinking wanker. I'm now an urban bayside, suburban, latte drinking wanker who lives in Zone 2; I'm beyond the tram zone and have to catch the Frankson train.
