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 3rd 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
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
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
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.