Petrol Pete


Over the last week I’ve been getting my house sorted so that I can entice some poor unsuspecting stranger to come live with me.  I quite like the Con’s suggested housemate screening process, but before this could happen, some further work was required.

Last week the main living areas were sorted, so this week I have been shuffling my bedroom furniture from my old bedroom to what is now my new bedroom and then we started work on the bathroom. Ambitiously, the landlord had come-up with a plan to put in a new vanity and shower recess in the bathroom and basically redesign the whole room and was going to get me to help. Now, this may not seem that unreasonable, but for anyone who knows me, you’d understand that when manual labour is involved, the only thing I’m really capable of doing is passing tools… and even then you’d have to provide non-technical descriptions such as “pass me that long metal one with the clampy bits on the end”. But as it turns-out, the original plan was a bit ambitious. Not the part where I pass the tools (although even that part seemed pretty tricky from my perspective), but the whole project was going to require additional time and resources that we didn’t have. So instead, we opted for a far easier solution – painting the existing vanity and patching it up a bit.

After a few coats of paint, the inside of the bathroom cabinet is now greener than a Prius and looks a million times better than it ever has. Then it was onto the back yard for some more garden maintenance. Given how much I dislike gardening, I was hoping that I could just set the yard on fire as that would not only take care of the long grass and weeds, but also dispose of the waste… but no… apparently there are a number of serious risks with starting a grass fire in suburbia, so that option was quickly ruled-out, leaving me with plan B – whipper snippering.

Right from the start, it didn’t bode well. I mustn’t have put the cap back on the fuel tank properly because when I went to start the snipper, it spewed petrol all over my pants.I then realised I had my wallet in my pocket and this too was now drenched in petrol, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I rinsed it off, and then poured cologne on it to mask the smell of petrol. Sadly, the results were not quite as planned and now I have a wallet that smells like a stylish homeless alcoholic. While the buzz I get from the fumes inspires thoughts of unicorns and vikings, I’m now afraid to get within 20 foot of an open flame in case my pocket spontaneously combusts (not that I’d notice cause I’d be high as a kite).

I think that’ll be the extent of my renovations and garden maintenance for a while.


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