It was your
standard housemate interview question: what
do you do with your spare time? The
answer is usually pretty rote – they’re either fitness freaks who unwind with a
soft sand jog, or brunching besties who know where the superior hollandaise is
kept. Occasionally they own up to
watching a lot of TV, and sometimes they admit they go home to their parents
every weekend.
The two
strangers across from me exchanged the briefest of glances, before one replied
with only a hint of trepidation:
“We juggle.”
And that’s when I knew, I wasn’t in Sydney
anymore.
It’s a point
that was driven home even further when I began unpacking the boxes and bags
dropped off by the removalist. Me, being
the anal-retentive control freak my friends have learned to side-step and
tolerate, I instantly spotted a suitcase that wasn’t mine.
Either the
removalists who’d arrived eight hours late, then tried to bail on me completely,
had stuffed up or they’d decided this was a timely opportunity to dispose of a
body. Me, being the absurdly paranoid
zombie apocalypse doomsday prepper my relatives have decided to ignore and/or
humour, I could only assume it was the latter.
Not wanting
the remains of whatever crime Dumb and Dumber were covering up to spend too
long festering, I unzipped the aforementioned suitcase. The Bearded Nephew and I looked down to see…
Bearded
Nephew: Is that…?
Me: Wow,
they were not joking.
Welcome to Melbourne, enjoy your stay.
Doing interviews
for housemates is speed dating, but with vastly more commitment. It’s filled with all the hurried introductions,
oddly intimate revelations and frequent snap judgements you’d expect… but then
at the end, instead of vague promises to catch up for a drink, you move in
together.
When you make
the leap, and choose to share a fridge, and a soundscape… and a wine rack (and,
please god, a dishwasher) with someone you’ve just met, it’s important to choose
for the right reasons. Well, no, first
it’s important that they choose you (if they have the house, and you simply
have the need). Then, when they choose
you, you need to choose them back. It’s
The Bachelor, just with less people invested, and far fewer awkward group dates.
If housemate
hunting is Tinder, swiping right means sharing a bathroom for the next 12
months. It’s signing a contract before
finding out what they really look
like. So when they say they’re
recreational jugglers, you need to believe them, because it’s random enough
that it’s unlikely they’re making that shit up.
That’s how I
ended up living with Juggle Boss and Magneto.
Yes, my nicknames make them sound like supervillains with varying
degrees of potential menace.
Juggle Boss
actually works with circus acts.
Basically that means all her work crises are just better. For example: “One of my performers took his sword in his
hand luggage on to the plane”, and “the
candy cane stilt walkers have been over-booked again”.
Magneto
works with… engines/magnets/something.
It sounds cool when he describes it.
He’s the type of person who makes dessert by accident, and is known for
waking up with a random pineapple after a big night out. Magneto also admits he hasn’t “come out to his work” about his juggling
yet.
I currently
have the house to myself because they’re away for a juggling convention. Because that’s a thing. It’s not the first one this year, after all
the EJC (European Juggling Convention) was only a few months ago. But this weekend’s one is more specialized –
it’s a passing juggling convention. Because that is also a thing. A niche, within a niche.
They’re
practicing patterns with names such as ‘Funky
bookends’, ‘Champy’, ‘Panda panda who’s got panda’ and of
course that inimitable crowd favourite ‘8441841481441’. You know you’re impressed.
Other people
who are impressed?
Mother
Painefull. Actually, initially it was
just relief - she misheard me the first time and thought I said they were ‘recreational drug users’. Now she insists they perform every time she
sees them.
Also my boss,
Stanislavski, who somehow developed an unrelenting ambition for me to learn
how to juggle. Like ‘stage-an-office-wide-talent-show-in-which-I-am-required-to-juggle,-then-cancel-the-show-due-to-lack-of-other-talent-but-still-require-me-to-juggle-five-days-from-now’
unrelenting. So, I’ll let you know how
that goes*.
You know who’s
unimpressed? My housemates every time they
get home from running their weekly juggle club, and I ask “How was le juggle (French for juggle**)?” Apparently it’s a bit repetitive for their
liking. Unlike juggling.
It’s through
conversations like that, that I’ve spent the past year and a half testing the
patience of Juggle Boss and Magneto (even before the trip down Break-a-Leg
Mountain turned them into my personal grocery shoppers and tea-makers). I’m here to tell you that patience is as flexible and durable as those
circus jocks who engage in the dangling arts. As one surrogate teenage daughter accurately
described them, they’re responsible… but
fun.
Whether we
like it or not, sometimes life throws us into the path of total strangers. With any luck, they know how to catch.
Even better, they might know how to juggle.
Painefull
Out
* = I
jest. I won’t let you know. Assume it goes badly.
