Back in Melbourne, I am drained but content. Today, I was short-tempered. I feel frayed at the edges. Three classes later, and I drag myself home. I am toying with the idea of ordering in. I am looking forward to my own space: I haven’t been alone since Friday morning, not really.
I walk in the door: water everywhere. The carpet in the lounge room is sodden. I can hear running water. The kitchen is 5cm deep in it. I work out that the hot water service has burst. I call a plumber and start to ferry valuables away from the danger zones. The plumber sorts it all out – according to the plumber, my landlord’s set up was illegal – but there’s still the question of all the water… I start to mop it up with towels, mop and squeeze till my back hurts.
I finally order food and sit to relax, chat to sleazemonkey and to daisynerd. I watch an amazing inteview with that Canadian muslim writer, Irshad, on Enough Rope (transcript) and settle down when the downstairs neighbour, and old greek drunkard, comes roaring at my door. “You got water? I got water’ he says. Yes, I thought my towels were doing a bizarrely efficient job: the water has gone straight through my floor and onto his. And it’s now seeped into my hall and my study. It’s all too much. I want to go back to my nice little weekend world with Brandon.
Mum says Grandpa is still holding on. He now hasn’t eaten for ten days or drunk anything for five. The only thing going into his body is morphine.