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Vintage with a conscience? You know you love it.
At a weird party in Fitzroy North.
There is no music.
Thom is drinking wine out of a can.
I am confused.
My friend Chris saw me using a payphone on Swanston St and asked me if it was something totally edgy and cool that hipsters are doing now. You know - a total backlash to technology. The Lomo of phones, if you will.
I had to tell him that I actually just forgot to pay my phone bill again.
Bimbo’s now does gluten-free pizza for a mere $2 extra.
I am so happy. I might even cry.
I AM MOVING TO FITZROY THIS WEEKEND.
That is all.
Today, I went to a rental inspection on Canning St, Carlton, the first inspection of what will be many over the next few weeks. It’s only been a year since I last threw myself into the Melbourne rental market (ugh) and in that time, I seem to have repressed what it’s truly like. Today reminded me that you can always expect the following:
- The house will almost always be far uglier than it appeared in the photos
- One of the bedrooms will in fact be a Harry-Potter-cupboard-under-the-stairs affair, or a garden shed with a waterlogged mattress on the floor
- The real estate agent will always be late
- The real estate agent will almost always be younger than you. If it is a Saturday, said real estate agent will be nursing a Red Bull and a hangover
- There will always be one group of overeager students who have already filled out applications despite not having seen the house yet, and will maniacally defend all things wrong with the house to make themselves feel better (‘The walls are full of asbestos? Ohmygod, that is so awesomely ironic and kitsch!’)
- If the house has stairs, there will always be an awkward moment of forced banter as those who are descending try to squeeze past those ascending
- If the house is in Carlton or Fitzroy, there will be so many hipsters present, the inspection will be mistaken for some kind of fixed-gear-bicycle-workshop/Arcade Fire ticket giveaway
Oh, Melbourne rental market. Your prices are inflated, your competition in the inner-north is absurd and your real estate agents are pretty much all people who flunked out of Flight Centre training. You’re kind of like a pet dog that vomits on the doormat every day - try as I might, I can’t help but love you a little bit.