Sorry about that.

For me, mostly. Another move had to follow; and that’s two inside three weeks. Do you want to know the whole ghastly story ? .. What, you don’t ?! — too bad. Coz I’m going to tell it.

I had three nights and three days of joy and happiness in my South Yarra abode. And then it was Friday night .. That’s when I found out: the whole complex at Martin Street – both no.s 31 (5 storeys) and 35 (somewhere around 30 storeys) – seems to have been given over to the young. And NOISY. And, of course, completely uncaring about anyone but themselves. Many, many short-term stay apartments, it transpired, occupied by people under 30 who’d come up to town to party.

I realised, eventually, after managing not to go mad during the 17½ days I was there, that that entire part of South Yarra – meaning a block of two in all directions from the Toorak Rd and Chapel St intersection – was a kind of ongoing entertainment area. Everyone seemed over-dressed to me, as if on their way to or from a celebration of some kind, regardless of the hour. Young people shouted to each other and burst into song from time to time; people of both sexes walked decorated dogs on leads in numbers I hadn’t seen since Paris in 2005. Delivery trucks spent lengthy periods trying to park in impossibly small spaces (and ended double-parked while delivering, holding up trams, the drivers of which parped their tram horns endlessly and fruitlessly); and ambos were omni-present with sirens wailing and lights flashing as they zipped between vehicles and pedestrians. Some blokes must have thought they were in Muscle Beach: gays in weeny shorts that showed as much as legal of their oiled  bodies, with many silver bangles up their arms, always seemingly in a hurry and screaming into their phones .. It was a fucking MADHOUSE.

But all that was not my problem; in fact that was huge fun.

It was the people staying the the Vogue – for that was the name of the complex of the two buildings – who were intolerable. My studio was one of many in a long row on the fifth floor of both buildings (they joined somehow or other above a huge Woolies and Big W between them) with balcony separators that didn’t reach the ground – Boodie was in heaven and rushed madly from one end to the other, squeezing his delectable little bod under each one – and the walls were .. not thick enough is all I can say. Not that they would’ve helped a lot had they been so; for each studio opened out via glass doors onto the balcony and all the tenants kept their doors wide open. In keeping with the laws of the young they all screamed rather than talked, they entertained their friends in these tiny little studios, and they gave not a second’s thought to anyone but themselves. I may well have been just the same when I was their age – except for not having had a phone to shriek into whenever there was a gap in the conversation.

Not exactly my scene once the clock had ticked its way past ten pm or so. I wanted to go to bed and sleep.

And then there were the outdoor activities – OMG ..

I’d never dwelt in a complex that provides outdoor entertainment places, and I shall certainly never do so again. A tennis court in the middle distance and a sort of greensward with trees dotted here and there between it and the Vogue building; and in the middle a barbecue area. These are facilities and there to be booked by residents. During the week they’re delightful: during the weekends they’re hellish.

I have suddenly lost interest in this miserable whingeing and shall cease forthwith. I think you have the picture, right ? – a place for young people into which I, an ancient, did not fit. My Property Manager had only just taken over #512 and had no idea of its .. ahh .. site use. When I told him I couldn’t stay without needing to be hospitalised ere long he was deeply upset that I would need to spend yet more moolah on another move; and the only money I lost was 12 days of my first month’s rent, when the owner refused to refund it (scarcely surprisingly !).

So I moved AGAIN. Had to. Absolutely no choice.

I am now in another studio under the rental ægis of the same Property Manager ! He is a really cute Hong Kong Chinese man whose name is Vince, but the key point is that he is a very nice bloke. He wanted to keep me as a tenant, and I wanted to keep him as a Property Manager, and now we are both happy.    :)   It’s grossly overpriced, being $340 pw – and that was chasing its dragon-lady owner down from $350, too. No dishwasher, just for starters ! Still, I can’t pretend that’s a major obstacle to a woman who’s called quits on cooking.

I always had a suspicion that having one’s bed in the loungeroom would be delightful, and it bloody is ! – a studio life for me !

What ..?

Oh, where am I now ..?

Back in Carlton, one of the many, many suburbs I lived in during the decade comprising my palmy days. But nowhere near University Street – on the cusp of the CBD, with the Queen Victoria Markets over the road !

And yes, I absolutely love it !!! I love waking up to being surrounded by skyscrapers. I love walking a couple of blocks to Aldi, and drooling in the window of a ‘Breadtop’ shop wherein they are constantly baking the most delicious goodies. I love lane-hopping across Leicester Street and Victoria Street and Elizabeth Street (but quite often I do wait for the lights). I love getting into any tram at QVM tram-stop and not having to use my Myki. I love watching Boodie out on the 12th storey balcony – except that I do NOT love watching him jump up onto it from the floor .. I mean, I know better than anyone that he will not fall off it; but I can’t help wincing as he jumps, and closing my eyes .. What is he was too enthusiastic in the jump ..?

Oh, mothers ! [grin]

A dear friend up in NSW sent me an SMS saying she wonders how many times I’m going to move in 2023. If I have me druthers, there will be no.more.moves.EVER.