ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A promotion last year to senior network engineer came with an increase in his pay packet – enough to finally break the bonds of the sharehouse lifestyle.
“I thought then that I finally had my shit together,” said Bruce Coleman.
“My own kitchen, my own living room. A place to call my own. Finally, I was an adult. I even got one of those extendable dining tables for when I have guests, or paint Warhammer figures,”
“Mum bought me a Creuset casserole pot. I’ve cooked things that’d make Christ himself collapse into a tongue-speaking hot mess of flavour-induced ecstasy.”
But, it seems, his shit is not as together as it outwardly seems.
Speaking this morning candidly to The Advocate at the Jones Avenue Terminus in Betoota Heights, the weak-chinned but strategically-beared young man made that admission.
Around 7am this morning, a mild stomach cramp woke the 27-year-old from his slumber – as it does most mornings.
It was time.
“I made the short amble to my shitting closet from bed, dropped my boardshorts and took a seat. Just as I was about to achieve my digestive nirvana, panic.”
Young Bruce realised he didn’t have any goona wrap left. A frantic search of the under-sink cupboard came up nada.
“So I did what I had to do. I sucked it up and went out into the kitchen to get my Viva paper towels. I haven’t had to do that since I was living in a share house. I’ve even used Glad Bake before,” he said.
“It was surprisingly pleasant. However, I will make a concerted effort to pick up some toilet tickets on the way home from work today.”
More to come.
