And Here’s The Fine Print…

After an exhaustive, nation-wide search hosted by an Aussie soap star and critiqued by an odd array of local B-grade celebrities and talking heads, the Cliff has a new housemate.

Our housemate selection panel - we were a lot more low key this time around

That scenario, both thrilling and unlikely in equal measure, was obviously my preferred option for filling the rent-paying-sized gap that sprang into our lives when Mick skipped town.  Sadly, twas not to be.

If the Australian Olympic campaign and Everybody Dance Now have proven anything, it’s that throwing money at something doesn’t necessarily make it work.  Neither will hype, stupid nicknames and revealing outfits.  Thus we opted for the far more cost effective, and ultimately proven method of getting in a friend of a friend. 

Marika is sweet, hard-working, and seems to take a lot of what I say completely seriously.  With that in mind, I thought it might be time to reveal some of the fine print that comes with living at the Cliff.

Here are some of the sample clauses you may not have been shown Marika…

With the latest housemate shuffle, Sam Kekovich is officially the man of the house

Sam Kekovich is our artist in residence

Yes, that is a mask of Sam’s face poking out from behind the couch.  It adds character, and potentially freaks out home invaders at first glance.  If ever there was a man to strike terror into the heart of burglars and casual guests, it is the always lurking Sam.

Get inspired

You may notice our Inspiration Board in the laundry.  You may notice we get inspired by some unusual things.  Like speed date rating cards, pap smear reminder notifications and the fact that every time I order take-out food over the phone people assume I’m a man.

Do you like penis maracas?

No?  Then don’t look in the drawer of the little side board that contains all our take-out menus.  I can’t tell you why they’re there, because I can’t quite remember.  I only know that it makes complete sense.

Tea time is all the time

In a similar vein… Poncho hour is every hour

We live on a street of perpetual construction (and Some Dude Who Treasures His Leaf Blower So Much He Uses It Daily)

That’s why we scheduled the house viewing for the builder’s traditional knock-off time (midday, the point at which all potential to sleep has definitively died).

We have a Seasonal Domestic Vuvuzela problem

Speaks for itself really.

Our yard is a barren wasteland for a reason

Abandon hope all ye who dream of planting stuff there.

While I’m at it I’ll provide a glossary of terms that will be thrown about liberally at the Cliff.

Speaking Fluent Painefull

Freshie – cup of tea, it assumes you are finished with your current tea, it also assumes you are perpetually in the act of finishing a tea (common usage: “Would you like a Freshie?”)

Hand-warmer – cup of tea, seasonal greeting most strongly associated with winter in The Fridge (common usage: “Do you need a Hand-warmer?”)

Lawyer-Face – the runner up in the most recently finished edition of Masterchef.  To clarify I am notably bad at pairing names and faces, which means The Cliff has an unusual set of nicknames for anyone that graces reality television (see also: Cry-Face, Crazy Eyes & Jamie Lee Curtis) and indeed, my life

Sup Playa – a greeting, salutations

Street Gang – the title granted to the group of children who hover outside our driveway, occasionally darting into oncoming traffic

The Fridge – lounge room, seasonal, typically associated with the living area’s ability to be colder than the outdoors in winter (hence ‘Tea time is all the time’ and ‘Poncho hour is every hour’)

Shower Jumper – the brief period post shower when you become stupidly convinced that The Fridge isn’t really that cold.  It is, you’re just wearing a Shower Jumper

The Hoff – our oven, so labelled for its moody and unpredictable nature (and the distinct possibility it’s drunk)

Screaming Brothers – they live next door to us.  Enjoy

Inferno – a café that isn’t actually called ‘Inferno’, I just call it that, and I don’t know why, and I can’t remember its actual name.  We tend not to go there anymore – it’s too confusing

That’ll get the new girl started, I don’t want to overwhelm her with too much information.

Painefull Out

Wanted: Incredibly Normal Person to Join Equally Normal People in a Household of Overwhelming Normality

The time has come, once again, to farewell a housemate.  Mick is abandoning ship.  But because Mick is entirely uncomfortable with being the centre of everyone’s attention (a fact completely at odds with his profession as a stripper), he’s doing it in such an incremental way that we won’t even have a chance to throw him a proper, dedicated farewell party.

This will mark the 3^rd change of resident at The Cliff, disproving once and for all a rather specific psychic’s premonition that I would be the first to leave the household.  Instead I am set to haunt these halls forevermore, eating punnets of ice cream, tending to stray cats and working at my loom.  In this version of the future I have a loom.

Of course this raises the rather tricky issue of filling the room.  Once again I voted for a Bring It On style panel but was over-ruled.

 

This deeply normal group of people is not unlike those that might be found at the Cliff.  The room pretty much sells itself, right?

In fact Layla gave me a list of things I was not allowed to ask about during the housemate interviews.  They included:

“How would you respond to a home invasion?  Do you agree space colonisation is the only way the human race can avoid extinction?  And how do you feel about ponchos?”

So, as I once again come to terms with my own growing sense of abandonment, I find comfort in the fact that the Cliff is the Hotel California of the Bay (you can check out, but you never leave).  Here’s to those that think they’ve escaped…

The Sister Wife

Hannah

3 years after moving out, she still remains the owner of at least 50% of the furniture here.  Purveyor of weird Kava drinking sessions, and the reason we owned a Fooseball table.  She was labelled Jim’s ‘wife’ by neighbours when we first moved in, making me (I can only assume) the live in mistress.

The Baby Fawn

Jim

Prone to interpretive dance outbursts (most famously emoting his way through a performance detailing the birth of a baby fawn… an act that has become more elaborate with each encore and may, or may not, now feature a spotlight, special dancing pants and a soundtrack of Sarah Blasko), possessor of a luxuriant red shag rug, and owner of the finest photographic collection on record of me getting kicked out of pubs.

The International Man of Mystery

Mick

So mysterious I briefly theorised he might be an ASIO agent, so secretive he kept his toothbrush hidden, so stealthy he once almost reported his car stolen after parking it so discreetly he couldn’t find it.  He may have moved, or he might just have been sent on a long term undercover assignment.  Somehow, despite this, also prone to superb fits of dance.

I now have the trying task of attempting to appear normal enough to live with for a new round of prospective housemates.  Not normal like 'boring' normal mind you, just 'normal-enough-that-it-won't-be-instantly-apparent-I'm-the-type-of-person-who-occasionally-ends-random-sentences-by-scatting' normal.  You've got to build slowly to these types of revelations.

Painefull Out