As you may recall the last place, I lived I was in a unit, I was the front unit in a small block of three. What was so good about it was that apart from feeling like I lived in a house, complete with three bedrooms, a real laundry, a small backyard and a linen cupboard. But what was particularly good was I had street frontage.
I could sit on my couch and see when the landlady came down with her secateurs and dead headed the roses. I could see people walk their dog’s past and stop to smell the roses. Part of the reason why I never picked the roses to bring them inside was because I could watch people appreciate them, from my couch and it also meant I discovered my garden hose cut by something sharp, I could tell it was likely my landlady who was insisted I not use the garden tap, telling me they paid for it.
Ironic, I don’t miss her and her ‘Handsy’ husband. However, the point being, is that when I had the CBF’s (Can’t be Fucked) to leave the house, I would stay in bed, but look out the window and see that I wasn’t alone, even if I didn’t want to go out and be a part of the world.
I remember a downside was the 50 something, man child who still lived at home, who parked outside my bedroom window. About six metres from my window and across the front lawn. The footpath, then the nature strip. (But still) and he would go out to warm his engine at 6am every friggin morning and he wouldn’t do it once, but several times. Every morning. I wanted to scream at him.
“Dude! Your car is old, but it’s not vintage” now you know said ‘Man-Child’ was Greek. Because they are.
But the main cool thing about having a street frontage was that most days there would be a car that drove past and tooted. Now, I didn’t know who was doing the tooting for ages and having lived in Clifton Hill years ago, opposite some low-rise Public Housing (don’t start me). Apparently, the norm is when visiting someone in Public Housing, you pull up in your car out front and toot your horn. None of this getting out, going in and using the doorbell. Don’t be ridiculous.
So, I had presumed (note: Avoidance of the word assume) that some lazy ass was saying hello to the wogs across the street without stopping.
It was a very fair assessment, trust me. So, the tooting horn continued, I have to give it to my carers who seemed to appreciate my frustration.
Until one day, I mentioned it to Aunty Christine and she growled at me “THAT’S ME”. What? Apparently, Aunty Christine would go past and toot a hello every other day, would have been helpful if I’d known this.
From then on, when I’d hear it, I’d turn to my carer in residence and point outside to say ‘That’s Aunty Christine’. Sometimes, she would later report a guy across the street looking strangely at her ass she drove past. So, she would just give them a dismissive wave. As if they were meant to know she was doing the 5 quick toot salute to Helen? Priceless.
The downside is I now live on a very busy corner in an apartment and no more tooting.