Open For Business
Earlier this year I moved to the city to be closer to friends, study and work opportunities. My address now contains the words and numbers ‘Perth 6000’, when I was young I assumed anyone who lived in the 6000 postcode wore top hats and swam in pools full of money like on Duck Tales. Silly young me didn’t realise that anyone can live in the city, if they pay a decent amount to rent for a small apartment in a complex with a shared pool that is full of water instead of money. Top hats are optional.
Living in the city has its pros and cons…
Pro: Ten minute walk to Murray Street.
Con: Ten minute walk home at 1am will might result in a brisk mugging or assault.
Pro: Closer to friends.
Con: Further away from family.
Pro: The man with a cockatoo in a basket on his bike is cool.
Con: The crazy flag lady is not cool. Run away.
Pro: The apartment is nice and has faster internet.
Con: IT DOESN’T HAVE A BATH TUB, WHY DID I AGREE TO A BATHLESS APARTMENT? NEVER EVER AGAIN. EXCLAMATION POINT. ANOTHER EXCLAMATION POINT.
In the end the pros and cons level out. Except for the bath. I’m so traumatised about my lack of ability to relax in a bath that I ask everyone I meet if they have a bath that I could use. So far, only one person has said yes.
Although my mother worked in the city when she was in her early twenties, it didn’t help her come to terms with the CBD I now live in, full of crazy people, one way roads and stairs. Oh, don’t get her started on the stairs. There are nearly 40 of them leading up to my front door and she hates every single one of them.
As I was riding shotgun in my mothers shiny new car we passed two of the local whore houses. I gather one is like the Hungry Jacks (Burger King if you’re American) of hookers, while the other is like McDonald’s – both serve the same items and one always claims their burgers taste better.
“What is that place with the flashing lights?” asked my Mum.
“It’s a whore house” I replied, as if whore houses are on every street in every neighbourhood and everyone is cool with it.
“A what house?” she exclaimed, as if whore houses are not on every street in every neighbourhood and everyone is not cool with it.
“A brothel… a place where men visit prostitutes.”
I wanted to elaborate more about the penis goes into the vagina and money is exchanged perplexities, but decided not to, I was riding in her shiny new car and she would never forgive me for tarnishing its innocence. I had already told it the petrol fairy wasn’t real when she wasn’t listening. My mother was quiet for a moment and then, in a nonchalant tone said…
“Oh, I thought it was a cafe.”