My Home Is My Castle

The above title phrase takes on a special aptness given that with most castles these days, all the interesting stuff is found via archaeological digs. So too in my study downstairs at my new secret base in Sydney's Inner West - to find anything interesting or useful, expect to dig deep, as these pictures clearly show.

We've been in about three weeks now, and I'm discovering, or rediscovering, several fundamental tenets of “The Move”. To whit:

  • Moving two people's belongings from two three-bed houses into one two-bed house is an excercise in spacial dexterity of the highest order
  • Our dogs have trouble grasping the fundamental physics of the common flapping pet door whereas the cat has trouble grasping the dogs.
  • If you buy a house with narrow stairs and decide put the lounge upstairs, expect some minor issues in installing the sofas, television and other large furniture.
  • Queen size beds are bigger than you think they are.
  • Boeing 747-100s are really, really loud. .

Most of these issue have solutions, however. One involves eye hooks, climbing ropes, manpower, creative rigging and a willingness to drag stuff over the balcony, another involves bribery with petfood and infinite patience and yet another involves the willingness and ability to just throw some things away and pack others into very small spaces.

The 747 thing is less solvable, though I've realised it's possible to infer the type of aircraft from the noise it makes on approach or takeoff. I'm working on naming the carrier airline by sound alone.

On the upside, after last night's exertions I now have a usable gym, with free weights, bike and multigym ready to use. The bouldering wall will begin to evolve over the next few weeks in the same space. Next project: My study, including an upgrade of the home server to be the new Windows Media Center. Wish me luck.

Breakthrough in life extension found

The SMH is reporting that J*mes Bl*nt's 'Goodbye My Lover' is the most requested funeral song. This means a great increase in life expectancy as the terminally ill struggle to hold on to that last breath of precious life, knowing that if they shuffle off the mortal coil they'll be seen into their eternal rest by one of the most annoying songs ever. Bonus item: Mitch Benn's “I May Just Have To Murder James Blunt”.

And to close, an announcement: At my funeral, I demand the Dead Kennedys' “Too Drunk To Fuck”.

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