+ un-velopment.

I hope that both of you have read my last blog on my house, because there has been a development...and not the kind of renovation development, if anything it should be classified as an un-velopment. 


The first thing I hear of this un-velopment is from a text from my mother during Literature, "Make sure you come in the front door". Sorry? What happened to the back door? Did they pull a Fawlty Towers and block up the door? Oh no. Losing a door would have been infinitely better. 
The stench of syrupy glaze hits me like a brick wall immediately after I clamber through the front door as instructed. It's the smell of Bunnings, an odour so alien to me. I drop my bag and investigate. I'm sure some tradie or handyman could have predicted the mutilation to my house from the simple clues, even Sherlock Holmes without knowledge of simple power tools. But not me. The entire (and I literally mean the whole 7x4m) living room lacquered in dust (not the magical fairy variety) on par with the intoxication of Pompeii's. Clue numero duo: the noise, audibly polluting, which is only magnified by the echo enhancing feature of our house. Look, I'm dense and didn't click until I rolled open the double doors to the kitchen area and saw catastrophe. 
The whole of the dining room, kitchen (including fridge, microwave, rubbish bin, sinks, pantry) and laundry - therefore the whole guest wing and garage: no walk zone. 
Not going to lie, I screamed, inside my mind, but apparently I didn't conceal this shock sufficiently as the sun damaged, sloppy man whizzing this..sander thing around my kitchen floor with a cigarette in his mouth.  I wasn't sure whether I should have been more shocked that some prison escapee was in my kitchen, or whether this stranger was smoking inside my house. He may have realized my literal =O emoticon face and quickly terminated the sander. Thank goodness my mother shut the doors and lead a confused me outside on the doorstep so we could inhale fresh air once again. All the fresh oxygen stung my lungs. 
And it's there on that front step we sat, my mother and I, for perhaps a good forty minutes. Waiting in utter frustration in the numbing cold until we gave in and just sat in the piano room, perhaps the emptiest, least used room in the entire house...at least it finally gained some attention. By now it's four thirty and I'm bloody hungry, but no, all there was to eat was Haighs chocolate I had stocked up...but that had to be rationed...desperate times...after all, we were already losing our minds after an hour, how long would it be until we descended into cannibalism? For goodness sake it was Lord of the Flies all over again! It reached the point where my mother and I had been playing Vuvuzelars and Flood (iPhone games...*sigh*) for so long we didn't realize we were sitting in pitch black with only our faces illuminated by the light of the glorious iPhone. We were delusional, dehydrated, and dying of starvation. Only one thing awoke us from our Apple induced daze, "...last christmas I gave you my heart...and the very next day, you took it away...", oh, my, goodness, the prison break sander was singing. But not just like your every day under the breath on the train mumbling, it was glee club belting.  
This was when we knew we had to leave, the same epiphany Tom Hanks had when he realized Wilson wasn't real. Yeup. 
So we packed up supplies (grabbed the keys) and on our sneaky tip toe exit we were intercepted! No! So close to freedom! It was the quick round up through the car window: "So we'll be back tomorrow afternoon to finish it off yeah?" "Yeah...no, can you do Saturday?" "Ah, nah mate, I gotta do my 100 hours of community service for the judge lady ya know.." Um, sorry, community service? What felons are we housing to sand our floorboards!? And judge lady? My goodness. Please don't ever come back. "No, we'll make it Friday then." "Yeah, cool, right, good". Would you like another word of confirmation? He's exhausted all the synonyms. 
Although we managed to survive by crashing at my friends house, we arrived home at 11pm, reminded of the next 24 hours we couldn't spend in our kitchen, the room of life. 


Genius.


So reader(s), I'm ridiculously frustrated and can't exactly get words out, so let's give this blabble a moral:
Don't buy houses with wooden floors. or perhaps Don't hire men who have received so many fines they must do 100 hours of community service. or maybe Don't have your kitchen, laundry, fridge, microwave, guest rooms and the garage in one area. 


Oh, and it was probably very wise of us to leave all the lights on....*smacks head on desk*


Stay Tuned. 
life's narcissistic narrator. 
+ the red fox. 


-OVER AND OUT-