Hello there! Long time, no blog. It's been a crazy couple of months since last we spoke (i.e., I wrote things and you read/ignored them). There's been a big fat Christmas, a swollen New Year's Eve, infected radio, inflamed comedy, sleep-inducing surgery and sweltering, sunburnt-cum-peeling weather.Ew.But it is my recent dalliance with house-sitting that I wish to inform you about in this particular article here today. If you wish to find out more about my surgery, my peeling skin or any other such topics, please write to:Saturday Disney Locked Bag 937Brisbane 4001So my friend Nelly asked me to house-sit her two bedroom apartment in Brunswick while she, along with her partner Lachlan and their adorable daughter Rose, went camping in popular coastal getaway, Port "a charming little shanty costs $4.2m" Fairy. I was happy to oblige; not only did it make me fell all warm and responsible inside, it gave me a great chance to briefly escape the realities of share-house living. Don't get me wrong: I genuinely like my housemates and feel very fortunate to have ended up living at our cosy address in Carlton North. It's just that after a while, being forced to watch Housemate A practice his handstands for over 20 minutes or being informed by Housemate B that I "might want to wait a bit" before going into the recently vacated toilet gets a little old and Mummy needs some alone time.I had a pretty sweet deal in front of me: my instructions were to look after the cats, water the plants and try to avoid breaking things. Otherwise, I was told to make myself at home. I was free to eat the available food, drink the available beer, have people over, watch DVDs, use the internet; it was like my home, without the inconvenience of parents. If you kind of squinted at my life, you might say that I had actually become independent. But there was a problem: namely, the cats. As Nelly took me on the induction tour, the frequency with which she recommended being careful of the cats became a little unnerving. The facts began to come to light: they were both male cats. They had never been outside. They weren’t allowed to go outside because one of them had a disease that he could pass on to other cats if in combat. They liked to hiss. Rubber bands had to be placed around doorknobs in order to prevent these creatures from prizing shit open. But it was the names that scared me the most. They were named "Furio" – after Italian mobster Furio Giunta from The Sopranos – and "Pinky" – after Mr. Pink from Reservoir Dogs, one of the most violent films of the second half of the 20th Century. Screw "Fluffy" or "Cuddles"; these things were named after convicted criminals. For a whole eight days, I had to be their warden, and I was quite concerned that they would make me their domestic bitch.Things didn’t start well. As soon as I said goodbye to the happy family and wished them well on their holiday, I closed the door and turned around, only to step on Furio’s head. He immediately hissed and proceeded to massacre my leg, I imagine not unlike the real Furio in a knife fight. Within 30 seconds of me actually house-sitting, blood had been drawn. When Lachlan came back into the house 20 seconds later, explaining he’d forgotten a sleeping bag, it was up to my dripping leg and I to explain what had happened. Lachlan looked skeptical at best, and I can’t help but feel that he lingered just a little bit longer before closing the door a second time, as if to say, "I am afraid that you will burn my house down".He probably just wanted to check he hadn’t forgot anything.Cut to the following night and I’m standing in the hallway of the house in my underwear, fresh blood flowing down my legs and face, a very angry Furio blocking the entrance to my bedroom and a Pinky who had gone AWOL. Sure, in this living situation there was no one stinking up the bathroom, but there did seem to be an awful lot of blood involved. I had no idea how to put the cats to bed, I couldn’t get to any form of protective clothing in my suitcase and I was still yet to clean up Furio’s vomit from the previous afternoon. I’ll be honest, I cried a little bit. I wanted to go home. My concept of 'home' has slowly changed over the past few months. While I still consider Manuka Drive in Warrnambool, abode of my lovely parents, to be my fundamental home/bank, so many important things in my life are Melbourne-based, and there are so many things that I associate with 607 Station Street, that my Carlton North-address is beginning to take on the image of another 'home' in my mind. As I erect my Swedish bed and desk by myself (without the help of my father or brother), as I sort out all my clothes and papers and as I go shopping for groceries to stock my fridge, I feel like I’m slowly building a way to live that is my own. Yes, there are challenges to going solo, feline and otherwise (at our house you have to wedge a pole between the wall and the dryer door to keep it closed), but they’re sort of worth it when you realize they’re part of the whacky process of becoming an adult. And yes, some things my housemates do get on my nerves (and likewise, I’m sure), but they’re also my friends. My rent-paying friends. Of course, I’m no adult yet. I’ve got a bit of ground to make up. While house-sitting in Brunswick, I drank beer in the middle of the afternoon as opposed to juice because I couldn’t be bothered going to the supermarket, a full 150m away; I slept on a mattress on the floor for six months because I wasn’t prepared to commit to a frame; I’ve cleaned my teeth at meal times so as not to feel like eating and to avoid the hassle of boiling pasta or buying takeaway food. Heck, just while writing this blog I managed to consume an entire box of Original TeeVee Snacks by myself with little to no feelings of regret. But I’m getting better. Slowly. Fortunately, I have a benchmark of when to stop. In one of the greatest life lessons of her career, my mother clearly illustrated the point at which one is caring too much about domesticities recently when, in preparation for having guests over, she cleaned our clothesline.… I understand you’ll probably need some alone time yourself after that, so I’ll wrap it up here. Oh, you’ll be pleased to hear that I managed to become friends with Furio in the end, and Pinky only hissed at me as an expression of love. The house didn’t burn down, the beer was lovely and overall, I felt I did a good job. Actually, just before I left, Pinky did a poo in the baby’s room and stunk out the place. It reminded me of home.