Traditions part three
Previous: Traditions part two.
The agent rang up early this morning explaining that I needed to wipe down the blinds in the study but, apart from that, the rest of the apartment was sufficiently clean. Not something I wanted to do, returning to Burton Street so quickly, but the agent promised me that he would release the bond if this was done. Upon arriving at Darlinghurst, a loud bunch of presumably straight guys were yelling taunts at all the poofters, something I don't remember ever happening in my time in poofter-land. Met up with the ex-housemate and it was as if we had only seen each other five minutes ago though walking into that empty apartment felt like I'd never lived there at all. The place looked small, hard to believe that we fit three people in here. And it was spotless, I could have moved back in in a second.
Those damn blinds were so hard to clean, they had somehow acquired a greasiness that made it extremely difficult to remove the dust. There was nothing remarkable about the reunion chat with the ex, no fanfare, just a tiredness. From the move? From having to return to this place? Anyway, we finished cleaning the blinds as best as we could and parted unremarkably, again no fanfare, like we're going to see each other again in the next five minutes. I wandered around Oxford Street, it still felt like my own backyard.
Two days away from this place and my memory is already patchy.
3. Omelette and juice at Truck
This was a relatively new tradition for me. Truck happened to be the first cafe I went to when I first moved into Darlinghurst but, being mildly unimpressed by the soy latte, stopped going. It wasn’t until a couple of months I got back from America last year to find my then housemate had started to drink soy milk and was going to Truck for brekkie when I decided to give it a go.
I’ve only ever had one thing to eat at Truck: an omelette with ham, chorizo and tomato. I’ve never bothered to try anything else but, then again, I never got the chance. And, besides, it’s very good. (except for that one time…) In reality it’s less of an omelette and more scrambled eggs loosely held together by other bits of food. But it’s big. And yummy. And you can’t have one without a fresh juice. And, yes, I have only ever ordered one juice: an orange-beetroot-ginger.
So that Sunday I decided to treat myself to a breakfast as a reward for moving all those boxes in the van all by myself. Most of the hard work was done, except the cleaning, which I figured shouldn’t take much time ‘cos the place was pretty clean anyway. Truck was extremely busy, though, and I think they lost my order somewhere and, having not eaten a decent dinner the night before, it seemed like forever before they brought out my food. In reality it took over forty minutes so I was quite justified in being a bit cranky but they made up for it BIG TIME with an omelette almost covering my plate and extra bacon YAY after a few bites I was very happy indeed.
