Attack of the Zombiemobile
“One must be poor to know the luxury of giving!”
~ George Eliot
So, I moved today. As an only child, my family has a fairly interesting dynamic – I squawble with my parents like siblings, except there can be no muttered swearing, no physical attacks (anything psychological is fair game), and no convenient threats of the ultimate one-upmanship: “I'm telling Mum!”
What's really sad is the eerie, too-common sense that I'm the older one.
So, after a few years of hogging the bathroom, stealing the last choice leftovers from the fridge, and subtly jockeying for the best rooms in the house, the status quo has shifted. I've snagged Dad's spacious downstairs room, with almost-attached bathroom and its own door out onto the sunny, summery veranda; Dad snatched up my smaller but infinitely stylier upstairs room with custom designed and built furniture (by me and my grandfather, respectively, but still!) and egregious amounts of sun.
Who got the better deal?
Who knows?
Okay, so it's not as big a deal as if we'd actually moved house, but it's still something new. My theory is it's meant to acclimatise the mother hen to my absence before said non-presence becomes semi-permanent in a month or two.
In other news, Christmas came early this year (and not in the creepy “The World is Not Enough” way either). We're raggedy and poverty-stricken, so my nuclear family isn't exactly exploding with presents.
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| Lies. |
'Kay, we're not that poverty-stricken (but we don't even have a tree. That has to count for something, right?). Mother and Father bought themselves a behemoth of a trailer- camper- thing. It's the Frankenstein's monster of portable accomodation. It's enormous and lumpy and I swear it just crouches there and glares at any poor soul unfortunate enough to catch its beady, belligerent little eyes. When the judgement-impaired couple first dragged this abomination home, Mum triumphantly chirped, “Now we can come and stay in Hammy with you!”
The crickets followed her lead.
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| IT HAS NO SOUL |
ON the more positive side, I too received my Christmas present early. It is this on which I now type: an exceptionally witty, handsome and talented little netbook named Morry-Miniscule. He has been added to my steadily growing collection of electronics, which also includes Moriarty-Minor, an elderly and decrepit laptop tenaciously clinging to life, and Moriarty-Major, an unwieldy but very grateful second-hand desktop rescued from my old school. Both Major and Minor can be remotely controlled from powerful little Mini, a feature that's extra-amusing when someone's trying to sneakily borrow one of my minions.
Now all I need is a security mouse complete with remotely-administered electric surprises.
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