Well obviously you do, otherwise you'd have fucked off to play internet Scrabble (scrabulous.com) by now.
So on Monday I called up the removalists to ask when I'd be getting my shit, and they said they had no idea, but gave me the number of the Victorian company who was handling the home leg of the epic two-week journey from Perth to Melbourne. So I called them, and the lady told me to expect it sometime on Tuesday or Wednesday, and that she wasn't sure of specifics. About an hour later I received a text message telling me that the truck should be here between 10am and 12pm on Tuesday, and that I'd get a call from the driver half an hour beforehand. Excellent, I thought.
12 o'clock came and went, and no call. By 2pm I still hadn't heard from them, and decided fuck this, I'm bored as shit, it's time to wander two blocks westwards and attend a macroeconomics lecture with Jessie. There is no phone reception in the lecture theatre, but a) What's the likelihood they'd actually call in that hour timespan I was out of reach? and b) What's the worst that could happen? They'd happen to call then, not be able to get through, leave a message and I could arrange delivery at a later time. The next day, as a worst case scenario. I mean, they'd already gone well past the allocated timeframe, so surely they'd be apologetic and try to work with me, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong. Upon leaving the lecture at 3:15 I learned that I had missed 4 calls between 2:55 and 2:58. I checked my messagebank, and found four messages of static, or background talking, and nothing else. Then a few seconds later I got a text message telling me that they were unable to deliver my belongings and that I should call them immediately. Which I did.
Yeah, the gross old bogan lady on the other end informed me that because I was unreachable for that 3 minute period they considered the delivery a write-off, and had to put my stuff into storage. To get it out would cost me $180, and the earliest I could hope to receive it was Thursday. The fact that it was three hours after the latest specified time didn't matter. Neither did the fact that only 20 minutes had passed since their first attempt to call me. Needless to say, I was rather ropeable. Just ask Jessie. I'm sure the tram ride to Richmond which immediately followed this exchange was rather unpleasant for all involved.
I returned home around 5:30ish, feeling really shitty about everything. Tired of sleeping on a single mattress on the floor. Annoyed at the fact that I still had no CD player, no TV, no computer. Pissed off that I was being ripped off $180 by some shonky bogans from the western suburbs. Convinced that the Elder Gods were conspiring against me, and that maybe this whole transcontinental moving thing wasn't really going to pan out. And then I found this note on the dining table:
We finally got a TV, but it doesn't work (I'm buying one of those cable things tomorrow). Sorry for changing the place, it worked best with the TV. If you don't like it, feel free to move it back. Hope it's ok.
See you soon,
PS Phil the removalists came and dumped all your stuff in your room.
What the shit? I freaked the fuck out for a few seconds, before turning around and seeing my bedroom door completely blocked up with boxes and my mattress. What the fuck happened here? You know what, I don't fucking care. I have my shit, my room feels like an actual bedroom, I can sleep on an actual bed and access the internet in my own wardrobe (yeah, it's weird) instead of wandering down to an internet cafe and I never have to deal with those removals fucks ever again. Life is a pretty sweet fruit.
So that's my lot! Apart from that I've been reading a whole bunch of Richard Dawkins (then telling Jessie all about it. This may sound like really dull conversation, but I'm only competing with her seemingly neverending supply of Hamish and Andy anecdotes, so clearly I'm in front), writing the words LLAMA, INCA, EPEE, ERIN, LAOS and SAC repeatedly in small boxes and coming to terms with the fact that my local Safeway closes at midnight everynight. IMAGINE THAT, PERTH FOLK - SUPERMARKETS BEING OPEN LATE EVERY SINGLE NIGHT OF THE YEAR! So if I'm craving a family sized custard tart and a roast chicken at 9pm, I can walk a mere 200 or so metres in a southerly direction and obtain these things! What's next, shops being allowed to open on Sundays? Oh wait, that happens here too. And not a single family has been torn apart! And junior sports are still thriving, as far as I can tell! So this means the lobby behind the NO AND NO campaign before the last set of referendums was talking absolute bollocks? NO WAI!
Oh, I've started looking for a job! Fun!