The Sweat of a Salesman

I should tell you a few things about The Boyfriend. He is a typical Irish man, albeit one living in the wrong era. He is steadfast and conventional. He prides diligence and dignity above all else. He firmly believes that a good work ethic yields ultimate happiness. He is fair and forthright and frustrated with the Celtic Tiger generation.
He's also calm and controlled, avoids unnecessary confrontation and is the most reliable and selfless individual I have ever come across in my life.
Anyway, when Beanie Face and Cali Gurrrl ended their relationship, The Boyfriend decided to terminate a liaison of his own. Since being granted the unlimited usage of his company truck, the fickle Ford Mondeo we'd scrimped for had simply been gathering dust and rust in the driveway. In addition, our lease was coming to an end and there was still no word on our visa application. Beanie Face was moving into a new house closer to where he worked, and Cali Gurrrl was back in America. We needed to find somewhere to live and the second vehicle was making the process impossible. The Boyfriend scrubbed the car inside and out, bought some air fresheners, serviced the complicated mess that is under a bonnet and propped a "For Sale" sign in the window. We waited hopefully for expressions of interest.
The Boyfriend's prematurely greying hair was almost white by the week's end, when finally an Estonian backpacker called. The Boyfriend has trouble hearing at the best of times, and was perplexed by the Estonian's frail grasp of English. They reverted to texting after several frustrating minutes, and we arranged to meet in the city to show off Dallas in all her gleaming glory. We crossed our fingers as The Boyfriend turned the key, and with a deafening roar, chugged into the city.
We met the Estonian and his better-looking half at the prearranged time. He was tall, bespectacled and dressed in about fourteen layers of clothing. His girlfriend was half his size in stature and height, and with a voice so low and meek I quickly lost interest in her existence. The Boyfriend hopped out, shook hands and held the door open for the couple's expected inspection. He was in full salesman mode, all smiles and laughing at every word the Estonian uttered. I cocked an eyebrow, not quite sure what was so funny about the statement "We are backpackers", and said so to The Boyfriend - an assertion which earned me an elbow in the ribs from Himself.
Doubled over, I climbed into the back seat as the two men organised a test drive. The Boyfriend settled himself in the passenger side, waiting expectantly. The Estonian just stared blankly at us and finally revealed his reluctance. "Oh, I am not too good driving with the stick, so could you be please to drive around?"
"You can't drive a manual?!" I sputtered incredulously. Dallas was probably the most manual car I have ever come across - even requiring the odd manual push-start in the mornings. Before the Estonian could attempt a reply, The Boyfriend was graciously jumping behind the wheel. We took a spin around the block and the Estonian said he would buy the car if we got an Road-Worthy Certificate. The Boyfriend agreed to this condition very enthusiastically and we spent the rest of our Sunday afternoon pulling up to closed garages. I thought that vein would pop, but The Boyfriend eventually managed to organise a RWC, all circulatory tubes intact.
After some haggling and bargaining with the mechanic, The Boyfriend returned home Tuesday afternoon of the following week, RWC in hand. He called the Estonian and took the next day off. The Boyfriend was beaming from ear to ear, delighted with his victory, eager to rid himself of the depreciating disaster that had been Dallas.
I arrived home from work the next afternoon at about four, and there was no sign of The Boyfriend. At five, I called him to check in. He was two hours from where we lived, having driven outside the city at the Estonian's request because it was apparently "too difficult to be driving the stick in busy city streets".  The transaction was finished and he was just waiting for a train to get back home. He's not one for public transport and I could hear the vein throbbing over the 'phone so I made some rushed goodbyes and promised to have dinner waiting when he got home.
At half past eight, with an ice-cold steak and some shrivelled carrots sitting despondently in the microwave, I rang again. I didn't even get to say hello. The Boyfriend launched into a tirade that I'd imagine most of his fellow train passengers thought was a different language - perhaps Estonian.
"That feckin' gobshite! I gave him the feckin' RWC and all, and I got on this feckin' train, and he rang me after about twenty minutes and said he'd lost the feckin' thing. So I jumped off that train, and headed straight back towards the feckin' dickhead and turned up to find the jaysuzin' thing shtuck down the back seat. Well JAYSUZFECKINCHRIST, I nearly CLOCKED the wanker! And then he had the cheek - THE ABSOLUTE FECKIN' CHEEK - to ask if he could ring me if anythin' went wrong so I says to him, I says - 'Lad, if anythin' goes wrong in this car, don't even think about callin' me.' and I walked away. What a feckin' gobshite, what sorta hoor was he, wha'? DALORDLAMBAJAAAAYSUZ."
This, for anyone struggling, simply translates as "The car has been sold. I'll be home a bit later than I originally thought."

All Good Things Something Something

Cali Gurrrl and Beanie Face's arguments were growing more frequent. The end of our lease was looming and, coincidentally, coincided within a couple of months of the end of Cali Gurrrl's working holiday visa.
Their plan was deceptively simple - Beanie Face was to join Cali Gurrrl in America, as she had joined him in Australia. She was working two jobs, and Beanie Face was leaving every morning at six to arrive home every night thirteen and a half hours later. They were saving furiously for their planned relocation to Cali Gurrrl's home town of Temecula. As a draftsman, Beanie Face was finding it difficult to secure a job in California, especially since he couldn't provide the equivalent school qualifications most American employers demand. He paid an extortionate price to complete, and receive the required proofs, of said assessment. He was hoping to begin a four-year-long engineering degree in an university near Cali Gurrrl's home, and she had promised to support him while he studied.
This dedication came at a cost and the relationship took a turn for the worst, neither side having any real fault, both parties merely falling victim to unfavourable circumstances. Cali Gurrrl was a proud party girl and, understandably, wanted make the most of her short time left in Australia. She liked dining out and going to clubs, and was growing frustrated at sacrificing those interests because of Beanie Face's need to save money - an equally understandable action considering he was looking at four years of virtual unemployment as he studied.The tension was palpable and - inevitably - erupted into some very vocal, high-pitched arguments.
The Boyfriend and I overheard a couple of the ensuing rows, and headed straight for the door when we did so, taking long, extended Walks to avoid any awkwardness.
I was at work, tending to someone's gluten free toast with vegemite, when I got the text from Cali Gurrrl. They were over, and she was in desperate need of some girl-talk. And I was the one she came to.
I'm not very girly - you may have already guessed. Don't get me wrong - I bitch, I exaggerate, I cry and get jealous, and all those other historically girly things. But I only indulge in such foolish behaviour when my blood toxicity level is dangerously high after heavy alcohol consumption - and that's not as often as The Boyfriend would have you believe. Generally, I'm quite relaxed about my significant better's comings and goings. Frequently, I try to ignore any niggling annoyances I might have, because I am extremely lazy and can't be arsed with the effort needed to explain my point of view.
This being said, I panicked after reading Cali Gurrrl's message. This was a test of my girly prowess. I bought wine and too much chocolate, and Google'd "Things To Say To Heartbroken People". I schooled myself on the expected sympathetic responses of a girlfriend, and bought a copy of Cosmopolitan. I bought cigarettes and a pink, girly lighter and text The Boyfriend a terse message about how he should just get dinner for himself, as I would be building up Cali Gurrrl's self-esteem as a good girl-friend, something he wouldn't understand as a mere man. I was all aboard the Men Abhorrent friend-ship, a ready member of Vaginas United, ready to lend my shoulder for all the tears she could muster.
Like I said, though - I'm not very girly. Twenty minutes after discussing the topic at hand, I was a bit distracted and couldn't tear my mind away from my growling stomach. I was jealously daydreaming about what The Boyfriend might have cooked up for dinner, trying to keep my teeth from chattering in the growing cold. I tore bits off the corner of Cosmopolitan, smoked endless cigarettes, wondering why simply getting drunk for a week solid couldn't be the solution to every problem.
Eventually, we walked back home where Cali Gurrrl seemed to realise the reality of the situation and became emotional. Beanie Face was inside, presumably breaking the news to The Boyfriend.
The Boyfriend looked as awkward as I felt; we're Irish - being emotionally supportive in the absence of whiskey is literally beyond our realm of comprehension. Our eyes met and we mutually decided we were going on another Walk. We've never been as fit as that period in our lives.
Cali Gurrrl moved out the next day.
And then, there were three.

A Series of Unfortunate Events Completely Unrelated to Lemony Snicket

Bad luck seems to hang over The Boyfriend and I in a big, broiling cloud. Periods of moderate contentment are short-lived and therefore never fully enjoyed - we're always warily awaiting the next disaster to befall us, as it always inevitably does. The months following Fat Shite's return to Ireland revived my fate in an omnipotent deity because whoever They may be, They proceeded to dump Their chamber pots all over Yours Truly. 

The first sign of my impending misfortune was a bird emptying its bowls in my hair while I plodded home from work in the rain. I sucked some air through my teeth, balling my hands into fists, counted to ten repeatedly in my head - The Boyfriend and I were three days in to our second attempt at giving up the cigarettes and this was not helping. Saturated to the skin, I got home to an empty house and realized I'd forgotten my keys. The Boyfriend rocked up two hours later. Naturally, I refused to talk to him because nicotine-withdrawal makes me blame him for everything. I went to bed at about six o' clock that evening, eager to finish the day.

My alarm didn't go off the next morning - I was ten minutes late for work. Boss shot me an angry look. I noticed a red-eyed Sappy hiding behind the coffee machine. The argument they had at lunch time startled customers out the door it was that rambunctious. Every hour passed painfully slowly, and my urge to light up was making my eye twitch.

The following week began. I was waiting to get home from work. Every single person at my tram stop seemed to be sucking on a glorious cigarette and my train was delayed, indubitably, by forty minutes. My fellow passengers were horrified by my behaviour and left a wide berth when the tram finally shambled into view;  lingering behind random strangers, snorting their second hand smoke is - apparently - not a good way to make new friends. I hated everyone and everything.

That weekend, Beanie Face came across a mangled bicycle. I'd been loudly contemplating starting up cycling as a hobby and he is the sort who remembers stuff. He hauled it home, and The Boyfriend promised he'd fix it up for me. The brakes weren't exactly prompt, but they worked enough for me. We put two new tyres on it, pumped it up, washed away the cobwebs. I hopped on the saddle, The Boyfriend doubled over laughing at the sight and once he was done with his little episode of uncontrollable mirth (which stopped abruptly once he saw my stony expression), I tested the peddles. It is as easy as everyone says it is and I was beginning to enjoy myself. But remember I told you the good times are always short-lived? 

The Boyfriend and I were racing each other to the shop - which was located at the bottom of a hill naturally enough - and the brakes were just as bad as they had been moments earlier. Clearly, I was temporarily stripped of any mental capacity, because unsurprisingly, I ended up bouncing off a tyre that reached my chin and rolling onto the bonnet of the biggest 4x4 I've ever seen. I found myself with my jaw firmly planted on the tarmacadam. My ass was literally throbbing.

Thankfully, the driver of the vehicle was more worried about me than his gargantuan wheeled monster. The Boyfriend helped me limp home, where Beanie Face and Cali Gurrrl were having a domestic.

The lease was coming to an end and The Boyfriend and I still had heard no word about sponsorship. We didn't want to start a lease without first getting a definitive answer about our visa - it was too much of a commitment and too hard to get out of it if things went awry. We were physically stuck. And the bad luck cloud hadn't even burst yet. 

So I had a cigarette.

Fat Shite, Meet Karma

For a blissful month, life was good for The Boyfriend and Yours Truly. Cali Gurrrl and Beanie Face were excellent housemates, readily available every weekend for saturating our tormented brains with alcohol. Jelly shots and sangria and punch were regulars on our pre-drinking list. I enjoyed myself immensely, or so I was kindly reminded by everyone during postmortems the morning-after. I became a bit of a maniacal fixture on the streets of Melbourne on Friday nights - I met and terrified The Kooks, I was refused from almost every upscale pub (wholly the fault of whoever invented high heels), I happily accepted offers of hot chips from the charitable souls who fed the homeless (wholly the fault of whoever made sidewalks so comfortable for drowsy drunks) and tearfully - and regularly - questioned The Boyfriend's intentions and sincerity regarding our relationship (wholly his fault for staying with me so long, if you think about it).

I was making a few nice friends in my workplace and The Boyfriend's work had gotten the sponsorship process underway. We had something to look forward to and that made all the difference.

Fat Shite updated his Facebook statuses with snide remarks abut how wonderful life was in Brisbane with his new job and his new friends. Little did he know, his wonderful life in Brisbane made mine in Melbourne a whole lot more bearable. However, I'm a spiteful thing not-so-deep-down and frequently hoped his balloon-sized head would be somewhat deflated some day.

Some day was sooner than I thought.

I'd remained friends with Sour Puss and her soccer star significant other for purely inquisitorial purposes. Though the jabbing statuses annoyed me, I couldn't help but check their pages to track their progress. It's an embarrassing admission, but I am a thorough-bred country bumpkin and as such, gossip is as necessary as oxygen. So when I randomly spotted that one of Sour Puss' friends had posted a welcome home message on her page, only for the same message to be deleted hours later, I almost shat.

I hollered for The Boyfriend, told him the news. Being the good person he is, he shrugged noncommittally, and returned to his perusal of the broken window latch in the kitchen. 

It was the first morning I was eager to get to work. I barreled past Boss and Sappy, barely acknowledging their yawned greetings and pulled a couple of girls from the deli into the coat room and basically spat out the revelation that Fat Shite had returned home, tail between his chafing thighs. if there is one thing that will unite girls on a global scale, it is someone Getting Their Comeuppance. I realise now how horrendous it was that I was garnering mirth from the failure of another human being, but I literally could not help myself. I couldn't think of a more deserving fate to a more deserving fellow. 

Australia isn't for everyone - I don't even know if it's for me. I understand completely how one could become overwhelmed and abandon this dusty continent for the familiarity of home, but Fat Shite's scary-tale-ending was too hilarious to jot down to homesickness. 

The Boyfriend heard the whole story from home. Fat Shite had lasted six days in total in Brisbane. What became of his dream job, I will probably never know. Apparently, their money ran out and his parents bought them rescue flights. The Boyfriend was painfully wise and silent about the whole thing - "What goes around, comes around", he astutely informed us that weekend, the table around which we gathered scattered with empty bottles of $2 wine bottles. 

I slurred something incomprehensible and slumped to the ground, reveling in what felt like a victory. 

Six months later, The Boyfriend and I were living in an almost derelict hotel for backpackers over an ex-Nazi hangout, clutching a rejection to our sponsorship request, potential doors to progression slamming in our faces, all hope obliterated, traitorous tears brimming. 

And that, my friends, was my own introduction to karma - and she's as much of a bitch as everyone has ever said. 

Handling the Truth with Wine

Let me dispel several misconceptions about the big move to See The Wizard. Ireland is currently a land with a young and educated  albeit jobless populace. This is due to the infamous Recession. The Recession is not merely a period of economic decline in Ireland - it is an all-consuming, depressive cloud of misery that has infected the inhabitants of my beloved emerald isle, rendering most of them penniless and lacking in alternative conversation topics. To me, it was the perfect excuse to explain my lack of job. It's not that I didn't apply for jobs - I did. I just failed to apply for the jobs that pertained to my recently acquired degree, or jobs that were considered remotely reputable.
In short, I did nothing note-worthy after college and had to bail because bumping into the people who thought I'd be a success and repeatedly explaining that I couldn't be arsed becoming a success was getting increasingly tedious. Well, that and the fact that I wanted to see more of the world, or whatever nonsense us twenty-somethings spout these days.
Australia was the new land of opportunity. Everyone knew someone from down the road who'd hopped on a plane and become a millionaire overnight; someone who's homecoming was a spectacle of prosperity and triumph; someone with disposable income and a glorious tan. Naturally, I assumed I would return like all these other friends-of-a-friend - a fanfare announcing my arrival, my person newly bronzed and beautiful, astride a gleaming white unicorn, leaden down with chests of gold coins, backside visibly shrunken. Just the usual emigration-related dreams, I guess.
How life actually unfolded down under was rather different. I mentioned my pathetic phone interview in the cubicle at the Aquarium? Well, it seems this "consultation" was quiet the appropriate prerequisite to my career at Urban Deli. My boss was a bald Rastafarian wannabe, with a penchant for squeezing his female employees in inappropriate places and an unhealthy obsession with Bob Marley. He was running the cafe with his friend/manager/mistress Sappy, whose frequent emotional breakdowns were apparently par for the course according to the other workers. Boss and Sappy had a very peculiar relationship - though Boss had a long-term partner and two children, Sappy evidently had something else he needed and their habitual retreats to the coat room during the work day were long and strictly uninterrupted. One minute they were pawing at each other like hormonal teenagers, the next Sappy was screaming and sobbing, and Boss was turning up the volume on "No Woman, No Cry".
Every day, I waited tables and avoided Boss and Sappy's rip roaring rows. I tried my best to be the best waitress ever but I was incredibly bad at it, what with my natural clumsiness and utter hatred for the job. There one year in total, I witnessed an entire staff turnover before I left. Though the money was amazing by Irish standards, the Australian cost of living was exorbitant and I saved exactly nothing in all my full time employment there.
I applied for better jobs, but was rejected on the grounds of my visa. My non-residency seriously depleted my options - it was either cafe work or nothing. It seemed to me that the only people who could make a real killing were the tradesmen. Unfortunately, my laughable degree in English and philosophy didn't exactly qualify me in that category. And so hospitality it was, and still remains.
Though we wanted to travel, we also wanted to save some money. The Boyfriend was particularly intent on avoiding a return to Ireland in rags, and so we worked constantly and took no time off. As a working holiday visa holder, I was unable to work for more than six months in one job. To avoid this, one must go off the books and consequently lose all ones rights.
To get another years visa to stay in Australia we were required to complete 88 days of regional work. I tried to put a brave face on it, declaring the thoughts of picking fruits among snakes a delightful new experience, but inside I was dreading it.We spent our weekends and our money in pubs with Cali Gurrrl and Beanie Face. We lived in a mediocre house for extortionate rent and the dream that was supposedly Australia was growing more nightmarish by the day.
Oh, and I forgot to mention the constant rain. Melbourne is pretty beautiful and interesting and all that, but we arrived to eight months of constant and heavy rain, coming straight from an Irish winter into an annoyingly similar winter here.
The mythic splendour of life down under is just that - a myth. To make it here, you have to be willing to work hard and to do pretty much anything to get there. It's cut-throat for those who don't have a specific profession. And even at that, a lot of people have to go through refresher courses because their qualification is not recognised in that particular Australian state. Of course, these courses come attached to thousands of dollars worth of fees to us non-nationals. It's an arduous journey, and our venture to See The Wizard was slowly disillusioning our young minds. Thankfully, I've always been cynical and horrible, but The Boyfriend deserved more.
Then, The Boyfriend's company then gave us some unexpected good news. They were so impressed with his prowess and work ethic that they were willing to look into sponsoring him, thereby allowing us to stay in the country for a further four years, with potential for permanent residency if we got lucky. It meant we could avoid the regional work, and get a nice house by the beach some day just for the both of us. We agreed and the process began.
It was probably the hardest thing we ever had to do, and it only got worse.
But never fear - this all happened after the $2 bottles of wine discovery. So we don't even remember how bad it really was.

Introducing Beanie Face and Cali Gurrrl

The new housemates were strange and alien to The Boyfriend and I - they tried to engage us in conversation, for one. They were eager for employment, for another. It had been so long since The Boyfriend and Yours Truly had been around normal human beings that we were suspicious and shy around them at first. They were a couple in their mid-twenties; an Australian boy fond of head-wear who will be hereby known as Beanie Face, and his gorgeous American girlfriend, who will be hereby referred to as Cali Gurrrl. In Australia six months after a year-long 'round-the-world trip, they had decided to move to Melbourne for a change of scenery. They baffled me with their unplanned adventures, and their readiness to spend money on excursions. Years spent squeezing my few pennies throughout college and in the lead up to the big transition to See The Wizard had left me almost pained at the idea of voluntary expenditure on anything not absolutely necessary - that is, anything that wasn't alcohol or cigarettes. So, naturally, The Boyfriend and I befriended them the only way we knew how - through the irresponsible consumption of the Demon Drink.

We all piled into Dallas and chugged our way to Woolworths, where I made the greatest discovery of my
short and dull life - two dollar bottles of 11% white wine. We each grabbed a box of six bottles, and after some tricky maneuvering on The Boyfriend's part, managed to haul Dallas out of the ramp-ridden parking lot, and headed back the house. 

To say we got inebriated is probably akin to a statement which implies I was moderately pleased Fat Shite had finally upped and left us.

Anyway, the next day, sore and hiding from daylight, we agreed we were a group who were talented at getting drunk together. And so it happened that the following weekend, Cali Gurrrl, Beanie Face, The Boyfriend and Yours Truly found ourselves heading on a wine tour. 

Now, this may be an unfathomable concept to my Irish comrades - I certainly was pretty disbelieving when Cali Gurrrl first brought up the notion of a wine tour. "A tour, where you are driven to different wineries, and can sample as many wines as you liked?" Cali Gurrl continued. "Where they have about twenty different blends stacked in bottles behind the bar and you just point and they pour?" Cali Gurrrl nodded, and went on. "AND IT'S FREE?!?!" I literally almost fainted.

But it turned out Cali Gurrrl was telling the truth, and after I'd gotten over the initial shell-shock, we were on our way. We went to the Yarra Valley, a picturesque place with rolling hills and sprawling vineyards, home to the about 80 winemakers and their wares, including the famous Domaine Chandon, the only Australian winery founded by Moët and Chandon. In short, it was all very prestigious and fanciful, and with The Boyfriend's sudden declaration that he regretted being the designated driver, I should have known then and there that the day wouldn't be quite the elegant and sophisticated gustatory experience I'd envisioned.

Two hours later, Cali Gurrrl and I were probably drunker than is humanly possible. Beanie Face and The Boyfriend stood, arms folded, clucking disapprovingly like two old hens. To be fair, they had reason. We were outside our third winery and I'd walked into the glass door that was the exit - an exit I'd been ushered toward kindly by some old, gentlemanly wine connoisseur who I'd strong-armed into a photo with me. I was trying to keep it together - I really was. Unfortunately, I was failing miserably. My smile was lopsided, my voice several octaves higher than usual, my head was fuzzy and I kept desperately slurring at the winery employees that I could work there for a while to snare my second year visa, if they would like. Cali Gurrrl was whining in the background about Beanie Face's refusal to partake in the tastings - he'd been struck down by hay-fever or some nonsense. My alcohol-addled mind fervently agreed with her postulations, so I joined in the tirade of abuse, openly insulting my new housemate whom I knew nothing about.

We moved on to Chandon - I don't know what The Boyfriend was thinking. Really, he should have had more sense. That visit lasted about ten minutes. Cali Gurrrl and I couldn't even make it out the door, and decided to roll around in the bushes at the entrance door - as you do. Beanie Face and The Boyfriend finally must have decided it was time to drag us home, where Cali Gurrrl and I locked ourselves in the bathroom for two hours, discussing our respective other halves' many failures and annoying habits. After that, I thankfully remember nothing.

I woke up the next morning, wrenching my twenty pound head off the pillow, ropes of spittle clinging to the sheets, a wave of nausea overwhelming my fully-clothed body. The hangover was immense, unbearable. I met Cali Gurrrl in the kitchen, bent over the sink. I sighed inwardly, resigning myself to the fact that I'd ruined it with another pair of housemates - and these ones hadn't even done anything remotely irritating. They had talked to us, they had agreed to venturing outside the house with us`- they seemed like genuinely nice, normal people. They had even bought toilet paper. My eyes actually filled with tears - damn emotional hangovers. Damn housemates. Damn drunken version of me. I waited for the inevitable cold silence.

Then something wonderful happened - Cali Gurrrl turned around. She saw me standing there, pathetic and undoubtedly disgusting. And she laughed. She bent over with laughter. She cried she was laughing so hard. And so we sat there, at eight in the morning, on the floor of the crustiest post-session kitchen in the world, giggling until our stomachs hurt, reminiscing about our horrific drunken behaviour the day before.

Somehow, The Boyfriend and I had made friends.

A Tearful Farewell. And By Tearful, I Mean Long-Awaited.

 Fat Shite had mentioned in passing – to me, of all people – that some big soccer club in Brisbane had expressed interest in his apparent experience and skills. It was the first sentence he'd deigned to utter to me in weeks, so I didn't pay it much heed. I muttered something about how wonderful that was and retreated to my room, averting further discussion about his many talents, because that was always boring.

Anyway, more weeks passed, the barbecue debacle happened, and I arrived home after another days work to find the house suspiciously and uncharacteristically pristine. I peeped in at the sitting room – toenail clipping-free! I glanced at the sink – the towering Pisa of dirty dishes had disappeared, the counter tops glistened, the floor liberated from its top layer of unknown sticky substance. Warily, almost not daring to hope, I checked the bathroom. Lo and behold, there was a roll of toilet paper expertly threaded through the actual toilet paper roll holder!

For one glorious moment, I revelled in the cleanliness. Then I recalled by whose hand such work must have been done, considering everyone else was at work, and immediately my joy splintered into suspicion.

This continued for some days. I expressed, loudly, my apprehensions at regular intervals to The Boyfriend. Why was Fat Shite suddenly cleaning the house? He was also greeting us when we walked into the room. Something was wrong. The Boyfriend agreed, and began to notice things were being moved about during the day in our own room. He's always had more common sense than me, and I suspect he was beginning to piece things together at this point. I, however, remained perplexed and skeptical  refusing to acknowledge Fat Shite's abrupt friendliness or his unwarranted interest in sanitation. 

Then, as these things tend to do, it all came to a head, like the eventual eruption of a bulbous, pulsing pimple on a pubescent chin.

The Boyfriend called the real estate agent. She informed us that Fat Shite had contacted her, regarding his wish to back out of the house and asking how he could ensure he still got his deposit back. He'd lied and told her that The Boyfriend and Yours Truly were fully aware of his intentions. He'd been showing the house to interested parties, hence the unusual immaculate state of our heretofore grimy home.

No words can express the level of fury I felt that day. I knew Fat Shite deserved the nickname I had so subtly granted him, but that day I realised he had earned it - the only thing he has earned or will ever earn in his whole life, I predict.  As The Boyfriend regaled me with the tale, I stormed angrily around our room, my voice becoming more high pitched with every detail he shared, my face reddening to an alarming depth, my hands shaking, my fists balling – then I snapped.

Now, I have never been exceptionally good at keeping my emotions in check. I don't rant, I rampage. I don't shout, I shriek. I don't think, I just talk.

So, that being said, when I hollered for Fat Shite and Sour Puss to join me in the infuriatingly tidy sitting room, I wasn't looking for a calm and collected conversation.

Fat Shite finally shared his plans – he was moving to Brisbane to start a career coaching the best soccer team in all of Australia. He was going to find two people to replace him, thereby regaining his deposit. The flights were booked, the deed done. All that he was waiting for was two people willing to shack up with us. I responded by screaming that I hoped his plane crashed and killed them both. It wasn't my best moment, nor my wittiest rebuttal. The Boyfriend quietly informed them that they couldn't move anyone into the house without our consent – something I probably should have led with.

A week later, a new couple were living with The Boyfriend and I. And a day after that, we came home to Fat Shite and Sour Puss's empty room. They had sneaked away in the dead of night, without a word of goodbye, leaving only a lingering stench and Fat Shite's favourite beer mug as proof they had ever been there at all.

I smashed that beer mug. I smashed it good.