My sister told me the other night the alarming news that my parents have had rats in their garage. In the garage where I left boxes of my stuff. Boxes of cute little tops (like my pretty pink Circus Girl corset top, which I cried in one New Year’s Eve, or my slinky grey satin cowl neck halter top, which I wore whenever I was aiming for classy sexy, or the cute little cotton boho-ish top I got at the Camberwell market, a little too big, but nevertheless did well with the boys the hot summer just before I left), pairs of shoes and sandals, some never worn (the strappy heels that had skinny straps in white, beige, and brown, bought for their versatility, and white mary jane flats, no 4 or 5 in my collection of white mary janes, both I had meant to bring over), shorts, skirts, pants, and jeans (granted, these I may never be able to squeeze myself into again anyway unless I get seriously ill for long enough to lose a significant amount of weight – the sexy satin look Sass & Bide pants which I’ve never actually worn would be one of those), books that represent probably the closest thing I’ll ever have to any sort of collection (a couple of books on philosophy from when I thought I ought to know more about it, a copy of Advice to a Young Wife from an Old Mistress), boxes and boxes of resources I made/collected/pilfered for work (including childrens’ books as well worth collecting as the other books I ‘collected’); all these things… just things, but I still would hate for them to be chewed through by rats.

But (hard to believe as it may be), my concern over these things was overshadowed by my concern over the fact that my poor little sister is stressing out over her lease. She has two weeks left on it, she’d like to stay, but her flatmate is adamant she won’t, and they can’t even agree on where they’d move if they did. She’s worrying about how much rent she can afford, about where she’ll go if they don’t sort this out in the next two weeks, about what will happen when the lease does expire in two weeks’ time, about where she’s going to leave her stuff if she has to vacate and hasn’t got anywhere to vacate to (yup, that’s how the rats came up). I can’t even remember if I’ve ever signed a lease (maybe once? I think I’ve signed a proper lease once). She’s only 19 – my baby sister is only 19 and she has to worry about all this crap like leases!

So if anyone out there in Brisbane has room for one small, sweet, (usually) cheerful, 19 year old and/or all her crap, either on an ongoing basis, or for the short term, let me know. The closer you are to Southbank (where she has to go for uni) the better. Or if you have any advice about leases (I told her she could ask if they could let her continue to rent month by month post the lease expiry until she sorts out what her and her flattie are going to do – is that right?)