return of the native

[Haven't read this one either. But at least I own it and am faintly acquainted with Mr Hardy.]

Fantasise as I might of moving to a bigger city, I suspect it'll be much wasted on me - for every time I take notice of my town, which is astonishingly seldom, I get culture-shocked.

• What's up with the malls, heh? The layout, the aromas (not always pleasant), the traffic (and the obstructions thereto in the name of continuing development), ... if you didn't know where you were, all point to a location somewhere in Southeast Asia. And if you listened closely enough to the background noise you would hear almost no English.

• Along my cycle-path to Work, on the outskirts of the CBD, are some low-lying parklands just inside the riverbank. A couple ... check that, a man and a woman of undetermined relation, in their early 30s maybe (difficult to tell for reasons which should shortly become apparent) live there. Their entire possessions appear to be the rags they're wearing and what's inside the 4 or 5 bags which hang off a bicycle that's long past its passenger-carrying days. The first time I rode past them I thought they were regular poor folk (ugh listen to myself!) out for a morning stroll and a little treasure-hunting among the rubbish bins. Until the next morning, when I evidently disrupted their slumber - inside large plastic bags set up on the lawn. They probably move around a bit from day to day (whether for change of scenery or at the urging of police/rangers, I wonder), but they keep coming back to the spot which I've come to think of as theirs; and it's not a bad choice, all things considered. When it rains they need only move 10 metres or so to reach a pedestrian underpass. I've taken to ringing my bell (which I'm not in the habit of doing) on approaching this particular underpass, for fear of wrecking their home. Unfortunately it's too late to start saying hello now, we having crossed paths too many times without mutual acknowledgment.

• In any given locale in the world cleaners, like taxi drivers, are invariably non-natives. I've stayed back at Work often enough to have met most of the cleaners who service our building. Whenever I can I make an effort to exchange civilities, with enquiries about their day and family and employment conditions, i.e. the usual condescending questions which even I cannot rise above. I haven't learnt any of their names. I am certain that the objects of my brief and obligatory attention have not a clue most of what escapes my mouth and in any event find it more a nuisance than anything. The basement bike-shed is just outside their HQ (read: a couple of store-rooms); sometimes I see many of them gathered around their equipment trolleys, laughing chatting humming to the radio, oblivious to the language barriers amongst themselves and the more sinister barriers between them and those whose workplaces they clean.

a room of one's own

[A pompous literary allusion, of course, I never having read any Ms Woolf.]

Like most people I lived for a long time with my mother and father.

Jeanette Winterson, Oranges are not the only Fruit

The 2 or 3 people with whom I've been caught sharing confidences all happen to have their own dramas to contend with at the moment (such that if I started talking I might be expected to listen too - which can be a chore *eye roll*). And I dare not risk unloading on anyone I'm trying to romance. So here I am, naturally, bouncing in my safety net.

It came to my attention some weeks ago that my parents are set to rent out a 4th room in their 4-bedroom house. I hadn't had any time to process this news; until it crept up on me early this morning, and kept me awake after just 4 hours' sleep.

The room in question was once mine - or, as much as one could own anything under one's Chn parents' roof. It isn't a room in the strict sense but rather, an open games-area (converted from a former garage) located directly outside the laundry. Since I moved out it's become N's room (except that her bed is still in the master bedroom - another source of tension between myself and parents). I left my (as in, paid for by me) big desk and swivelly chair and bookshelf and TV-DVD-VCR combo and mattress and antique wardrobe behind, in the naive (and misguided, as it turns out) hope that my sister would have some place to hang out and receive guests - including myself. Apart from the lack of door and poor lighting and inferior insulation as compared to the rest of the house, it's pretty nicely decked out. More importantly, after the 3 proper bedrooms were let it's been the only space in that otherwise not unspacious house where N could conceivably enjoy some privacy - privacy which is crucial in her formative years, privacy which I never had growing up and now, by the looks of it, nor will she.

For what it was worth (read: diddly squat) I voiced my disapproval of the proposed arrangement. Unfortunately it was clear from the outset, without anyone having to say a thing, that the only circumstance under which my parents could be persuaded to reconsider would be my moving back in and tendering periodic payments commensurate with their "foregone profits". Which - don't panic - I have no intention of doing.

The result of my selfishness being, come Thursday, the only parts N will get to see of her own home will be the kitchen, the dining area, the corner of her parents' bedroom where she sleeps, and the "living room" which has already been largely obstructed by the imposing hand-carved mahogany lounge suite, the enormous flatscreen TV and her electric piano.

"Furious" is an adjective smacked of overdramatique as far as my feelings are concerned, particularly when these relate to my parents - towards whom I've long mastered the craft of functional detachment under the cover of ostensible devotion. But I am furious. And helpless (which, admittedly, is less unusual).

What I wouldn't give to disengage from my parents' lifestyle choices, to slip into innocuous oblivion the way they did long ago to me. But there's this person that I love and fret about (no more than I need to though, I think), who is completely at the mercy of two people with whom I find it so easy to disagree and so impossible to reason.

weakened

Took yesterday off Work with a view to preparing for today's exam (as far as Work knew the exam happened yesterday - a little collusion with a colleague suffering the same plight, goes a long way), but of course ended up having a grand time doing anything but, until 10.30pm when reality finally struck... Crawling into bed at 2.30am with a headful of mumbo-jumbo for an 8.30am half-dayer, just isn't as exhilarating as it used to be; and it never used to be much that.

Things to do on a Friday afternoon to make one feel more involved in one's baby sister's life:

• surprise pick-up from school
• donate retired computer to her classroom
• watch from porch as she feeds ducks (wild, not domesticated, despite the tempting inference given our ethnic background) bread and water on the front lawn of parents' house

Suffice it to say exam was too long, too hard, my handwriting a flaming disgrace, my effort equally so. I am still bristling with resentment and self-loathing: all these things I'm dying to read calling out to me from their various resting places (bookshelf, eBay, free ebook website, ...), yet I spend most of my days learning about how to make/save a shitload of $ for people who already have a shitload of $.

Thankfully cooking + power nap (not done simultaneously) promptly kicked the moody cow out of me. Then in the evening, cycled half a suburb across to join Special K's birthday celebrations (pizzas + Absinthe). Amidst the merry-making she managed to find the leisure to taunt me with her lovely straight girlfriends.

My stint of bandwidth pilfering is nearing its end - upon the highly anticipated return of my housemates The Lovebirds (yay!). Back to my naturalist 95% procrastination-free ways!