If there's anything that stops your life from getting boring, it's the company you keep. I know that sounds trite, but when your flatmates are the one thing keeping you from mind-numbing boredom, you know that TV needs a better schedule.
Ok, I'm the first to admit that waaaay back in December/January I was starting to talk seriously about making the transition to living on my own, but the move to Wellington and associated costs pretty much put the kybosh on.
When you step back and take a long look at it, a bloke beginning to approach his mid-thirties shouldn't really still be sitting on the porch drinking Tui and wolf-whistling at 'the ladies'. So I don't. But, I am still sharing costs with three others.
Luckily we're all the 00s equivalent of yuppies, with reasonable jobs in the city, adequate disposable income, a literally brand new flat, and no dependents. Naturally this increases the level of irresponsibility to heights unknown back in the days of student miserliness.
Why just the other day I was attending work drinks beginning at 4pm. By 4.30 my pod-mate, who was setting a cracking pace, had us two pints down, and we were only just beginning. By 8 (or 9?) I have a vague recollection of trying to respond to a very important question from a relatively senior manager.
"Che, what's your plan for the next five years? Do you have a specific ambition here at [prominent financial institution]?"
"Why yes [insert name of manager], yes I do. I've thought very carefully about my role here at [prominent financial institution], and I figure there's only one approach to really focussing one's drive. And that focus is domination, ABSOLUTE WORLD DOMINATION, MUAHAHAHAHAHA. [prominent financial institution] is just the beginning!!"
I figure you might as well hit the ground running in these situations. After that little performance absolutely anything even slightly crazy I do for the next year or so should be very small beer indeed.
Look, I've seen that Leon Rouge ad, and I think the man is onto something. Maybe. Or it could just be I have a habit of saying stupid shit when I'm getting loaded.
Speaking of embarrassing moments, and flatmates, one of the current crop moved here from the last place. We had to get out of that one on account of the landlord wanting to renovate and actually live in the place, or something.
Anyhow, during the clean-up process pre-eviction one of the girls found a box of magazines hidden way to the back of the under-stairs closet. The top layer was merely the occasional FHM and guitar glossy, but she became instantly suspicious, and left the box be.
As I remember it, it was Friday night before she informed us of the presence of the material in question, and chose to tell us after a few beers were being shared by myself and the current flatmate who also moved here. Since the only other guy in the flat was out somewhere, it naturally fell on myself and current flatmate to investigate, concerns about Whitetail spiders being what they are.
Well, we dragged the box out of the depths, after a small diversion involving the need to find a torch of some kind. We used the screen on a cellphone, and lo and behold, you guessed it, porn. Lots of porn.
I don't know who in the hell buried all that stuff back there, but damn... so. much. porn. Shifty bastard.
But, in the interest of trying to identify who the culprit was, we (including the female flatmate) thought we better take a wee lookie to try and isolate patterns. Within 10 minutes the evidence container is on the coffee table, half the lounge is covered in magazines, and we're laughing our asses off trying to find which magazine is the dodgiest.
Which is difficult, because they're ALL pretty dodgy.
At which point the other male flatmate strides into the room. With his Christian girlfriend from England. Who's just flown into the country and is meeting her first New Zealanders.
"Guys! This is [Christian girlfriend]! And this is.....
what the fuck is all this shit?"
Try having that much fun when you live by yourself.