Scary stories from a lovely place
For months now we’ve been searching for a house to call our own, or at least someone else’s, to rent. I’ve found it pretty all consuming. We’ve looked at more than I care to remember. We’ve driven to suburbs far and wide. I’ve dragged my baby children in and out of the car and up and down apartment building stairs, as we’ve tested out potential abodes. We’ve applied for about 10 and been declined each time. Not rejected you understand, just put to the side in favour of some other happy person with a bulging rental history.
With each missed house I go back to the drawing board. To the too-good-to-be-true pictures and poorly written descriptions of what are usually average places. Real estate agents need to learn that quiet isn’t spelled ‘quite’, an apartment described as ‘space savvy’ isn’t a turn on and calling the mall at Cronulla a ‘cosmopolitan haven’ is a downright lie.
It’s frustrating and discouraging and a time-waster. Often as I lie awake at night, unable to sleep as pictures of lounge/dining rooms, bedrooms with BIR’s and homes with LUG’s scroll through my mind I remember our wonderful home in Johannesburg. And I feel sad. I even shed a few tears. I wonder if we made the wrong decision to come here.
I remember all the walks I enjoyed in my beloved Brixton, taking in the trees, and flowers, the beautiful old homes, the view from the park, the interesting people and the patchwork footpath. I also remember all the times I got hit on by annoying guys of varying ages, the times when there were council worker’s strikes and rubbish piled up outside every home filling my nose with stink and the times I walked and dreamed of being in Australia and seeing the ocean and my loved ones. It wasn’t all roses and federation facades.
Maybe it’s just nostalgia or the lateness of the hour speaking, but I think the memories that are the most beautiful in my mind are all from the couple of years I spent in Brixton. It was ours, Stephen’s and mine. Australia is mine – my memories, my friends, my family. Hopefully soon we can find a little piece of this funny country that we can turn into ‘ours’. And then I can start writing with feeling again.
These are my favourite posts about Brixton –