eye on melbourne

And so the saga continues.

John and I had plans to go to to three open inspections on Saturday. The shenanigans of Friday night (Make-a-Wish trivia event, copious amounts of wine, gin, and helium) made these plans seem suddenly arduous. Especially for John because I’m way more awesome at hangovers. Regardless, we wake at 10.00am, and make it to the first inspection at 10.30am on Drummond St. By all accounts, this inspection goes perfectly well. I would later discover that this would be the last inspection of the day I’d be able to say that about.

Inspection number two was at a private rental, on Barkly St. I found this property on Gumtree, which probably should have been some kind of warning sign. Hindsight rules. Anyway, we meet with the landlord at 11.00am, as planned. Hands are shaken, pleasantries exchanged. The landlord knocks on the door, as is generally considered polite. No response. He unlocks the door, and we are greeted by the sight of a bedraggled, bedreadlocked dude sleeping on a mattress on the floor. John and I apologetically creep around said dude, as he pulls on a t-shirt and mumbles something incoherently. 

We venture upstairs to find much of the same - a bunch of other bleary-eyed guys who clearly have no idea that this inspection had been planned. Apparently, another housemate (let’s call him Geoff) forgot to pass on the message. Apparently, this is classic Geoff. I do not know Geoff, but I hate him. We continue to awkwardly look around, except for in one room because someone’s girlfriend is asleep in there. Things get progressively weirder. John and I leave.

The final inspection for the day was to be at 12:15 on LaTrobe St. We are quite excited about this one. We wait there with a bunch of other saps for a good 20 minutes before admitting defeat. I call Stockdale and Leggo only to be told waspishly that the property has already been leased. I say something along the lines of, “Oh, well, I’ll just tell all the people waiting here, shall I?” The Stockdale and Leggo receptionist clearly hates me; it’s okay though, as it’s mutual. We hang up simultaneously, and poor John is subjected to a good 30-minute tirade from me about How Common Courtesy No Longer Exists, with a twist of This Is The Problem With Society.

So, four inspections down and only one that could be remotely considered a success. By the end of this process, I may not even need a house. You know - because I will likely be in a high-security cell by then.