Tagged with property manager

luncheons not truncheons

It is my final week at work and it seems we’ll be having many a lunch. Last Thursday Holly and Edmund and Rob and I went for Thai food around the corner (since Holly was on her way to New Zealand the next day). That was pleasant enough. The food at the Thai place is a lot sweeter and not nearly so spicy as better Thai food, but still. We never did get to go out bushwalking, what with Holly’s schedule at Patisse occupying her so much of her weekend time here.

Then Holly went to Christchurch on Friday. I spent my weekend doing homework, watching movies, eating the last of the food in our cupboards (I didn’t want to buy any groceries this week, but ended up getting some ice cream today), and thinking about buying a pair of shoes.

I also sold Holly’s bike and the rental agent came by to show the apartment to a prospective renter. He’s such a slippery guy. He came in pointing and concern-trolling about how the place looked. There was a bit of mold on one of the walls that is nothing resembling our fault, but he tsk tsked and said when we do the final inspection on Friday he hopes it’ll be cleaned up. He could of course quote a price on getting it cleaned professionally… Fucking guy. Peter is going to move into our rooms and wants our double mattress, the one we found on the street. He’s also going to look after some of our stuff between me leaving on the 2nd and us heading back to the North on the 19th. Hooray for Peter.

Yesterday Edmund and Rob and I went up the Sydney Tower for lunch in the revolving restaurant. It was excellent. The place was filled with old people, and the elevators seemed in poor condition, but we watched the city rotate slowly beneath us for an hour. We could see all the way out to the Blue Mountains and Manly and the airport as well as peer down and marvel at the cranes and window washing apparatus so many tall buildings have as part of their superstructure. The vegetarian options were probably the best I’ve had at a buffet like that. Baba Ganoush and bread, loads of good salads, Indianish and Chinese dishes, all in all pretty decent.

Friday will be my last day at work. I’ve got the apartment inspection in the morning and have to get on a plane at around 6:30pm. And then I’ll be joining Holly in a life of vagabondery for a while. I never feel as much like myself as when I’m on a train or a bus or other conveyance. It’s going to be a good December.

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not my problem. at all.

I’ve been out of my old condo for a month and a half and resigned from the condo corporation a month and it’s been great. Then tonight after I fell asleep watching hockey my phone rang.

“Wha? Za! Ba!” I answer it. It’s the property manager from the condo. Apparently no one told him I’d resigned. “Are you home?” he asks, and because I’m fuzzy from the nap I say yes. Someone’s locked out of the building and he wants me to go let the person in. Oh. Well. I think, sure, I can do that. I’m only a block away and I’m sure they haven’t changed the keyless code. I’m putting on my shoes.

“I mean, you got home. I don’t know what his problem is.” And the fuzziness catches up with me. I don’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have even said I could. What the fuck am I doing? I momentarily feel for people who go back to bad relationships.

“Oh,” the manager says, “So how’s your selling going?” And I have to explain that I’m not there, it’s sold and I don’t know why no one told him. It also means they probably haven’t paid their bills. He apologizes but I still say I can go over to the building and check the front door. I don’t know why I say this. I hate telephones so much.

I get there and it is the very front door that’s locked. The one before the keyless entry. I don’t have a key for that and there’s no one outside. I immediately turn around and come home. I think the person who’d called the property manager might have been in a car across the street, because a horn honked as I left.

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