"You’re new to Sydney, aren’t you?” the real estate
agent asked as we admired the nodding yachts on Rushcutters Bay from the
window of the Elizabeth Bay bedsit.
She swept the vista with a mocking hand. “For $200 a week, you want
a view like this and a toilet,” she said reproachfully.
I had to admit the view was sensational. Made even better in that it took
in most of a local park, where preparations for a Saturday afternoon cricket
game were well advanced.
I like watching cricket a lot. Maybe not for $200 a game but a lot nevertheless.
But new to Sydney or otherwise, I didn’t regard my request to use the
bedsit’s toilet during the brief inspection as particularly unreasonable.
The agent took in my face – a mixture of hangdog and embarrassment
– and laughed good naturedly.
“Of course there’s a toilet!” she said, amused by my relieved
look. “I’m just pulling your leg.
“It’s in the kitchen between the stove and the fridge”.
On returning from using the combined foldaway toilet/shower, I checked the
urge to make an observation about the setup’s hygiene, suggesting instead
that at the very least it could be a little embarrassing for people “if
you’re having a dinner party or something like that”.
“You are new to Sydney, aren’t you?” the real estate
agent said. “It’s a bedsit, darling. You don’t have people
around. It’s just somewhere to live. And take it this magnificent view.
It’s sooooo Sydney, don’t you think? The eclectic jangle of architectural
styles of all these units offset by the tranquillity of these magnificent
waterways?"
Something in my expression convinced her to emphasis the point further.
“It’s a bedsit, sweetie. A bed and somewhere to
sit.”
“That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about,”
I said as we inspected the combined dining/lounge/bedroom/hallway.
I pointed to the bed fastened up against the combined dining/lounge/bedroom/hallway
wall.
“I’m not much at guessing distances, but I don’t think there’s
enough room to pull that bed out down onto the floor?”
“My goodness, you really are new to Sydney, aren’t you?”
the real estate agent said condescendingly.
“For $200, you want a view like this, a separate toilet and
a horizontal bed space.”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
I felt a little embarrassed as the agent showed me the three velcrose straps
running across the bed and explained how they worked perfectly with the
special velcrose pyjamas, velcrose sheets and velcrose blankets.
She assured me the velcrose system was common to most inner-Sydney bedsits
where space was at a premium.
“It looks very uncomfortable,” I countered. “Are you sure
it works?
“You could do it standing on your feet,” the agent assured me.
And I had to admit her point was valid that, if for some reason I couldn’t
get to sleep – had difficulty getting my head not so much down but
back – at the very least I had a sparkling million dollar view to help
whittle away the wee hours.
“Well, I had hoped to get a little more for $200 a week,” I said
as I fingered the rental application form, wondering what line of attack
would be best in trying to negotiate a lesser rental more in keeping with
my projected income of between $0 and $1000 a month. I asked for a biro.
“I suppose there might be a few other people interested in the unit?”
“So how long have you been down here from Brisbane?” she said
with a knowing smirk.
I knew immediately I should have left my thongs in the car.