As I sat on the balcony this evening, playing computer solitaire, sorting out pictures from the aquarium (ratio good:bad…1:4) and trying to capture an elusive picture of our friendly neighbourhood possum Percy, I had cause to contemplate a number of things.

Among them was how fantastic it is to listen to sports commentators speak about “final totals” in ice-skating, and how after a week straight of watching the Olympics I’m a little sick of snow sports. Unless there are crashes: I like the crashes.

I never realised what a multi-sports expert LaSharon (or LaTissue as my friend Nabs, from work, calls her), but I suppose that the saying “those who cannot do, teach” holds true for “those who cannot play, watch and become tele-experts” also. I’m mean, I’m not making a judgement here because let’s face it, during tennis season I’m somewhat of authority (as is Lush now that I think about it), but the last time I swung a racket I can pretty much guaruntee you that it kept on swinging til it bashed me in the ass.

Well after all my hoo-haa-ing, I'm no longer in the whole homeless situation. In fact, I'm not really in any situation. Here's the short version of the story: I found a place very close to where I was living and decided to live there, even though I hated it. I got the keys and everything. But instead of feeling relieved, I felt awful; the place was tiny and cramped, very expensive and nice as the lady who lived there seemed, she was just a little bit..boring. So what did I do? I panicked of course. Big time. There were tears involved, phone calls, counselling sessions with workmates in the fitting rooms etc. So I went to see Graham at the Housing Office the next day to BEG him to let mestay, knowing all the while that it was fruitless. And it was, he said no, and I cried a little (they were real tears by the way, not just feminine manipulation). But then, when he realised I wanted to stay at Mulwaree for another 12 months he said, "Give me an hour, I'll see what I can do", and here we are now. Still in my own room. Yay!

So then the problem was that I'd already bought a new desk in anticipation of leaving, and it was in the living room with the TV on it. So I decided to switch my nice lovely new desk with my crappy awful Mulwaree desk. Which was slightly problematic in itself since it didn't fit out the door of my room. So I decided to dismantle it, but I didn't have a screw driver. Instead I sat down with a spoon and a pair of scissors and had a go at the screws that way. And what do you know, it took me 15 minutes to get one screw out and then I decided that the whole scissors/spoon combo was not really workin so well for me. Later in the night I went on a bit of a door-knock to find someone with a screwdriver and discovered another problem: everyone who lives in Mulwaree is a student (well, I should clarify and say that everyone who legitimately lives here is a student), which means that all of our furniture comes from IKEA, which meant that no one could help me out by finding a screwdriver, but if I ever need an Allen key I'll be sorted.
I suppose to get to the end of the story I should tell you that eventually we found a screwdriver and got the desk out. It really just makes me wonder how they got it in there in the first place.