The concrete in our courtyard is not entirely unlike Kylie Minogue: from afar, there’s an apparent sheen and urban glamour to it. Upon closer inspection, it actually has many wrinkles and cracks. Oh, and it has cancer.

Seriously. Our courtyard has concrete cancer. Apparently it’s causing problems with the pipes underneath the courtyard. So, this coming weekend, our strata are pulling down our beautiful palm trees, ripping up everything in the courtyard and pulling out the pipes. Not just us, either - half the residents in our complex are doomed to the same problem.

They’re going to put back any plants less than 2 metres, which would be great, except that’s… none of our plants. We just have these nice honking big palm trees which I’m quite fond of. Apparently the owner of our apartment isn’t keen to shell out for a new garden, so it kinda sucks.

The real problem is that they’re ripping out the fences in between everyone’s apartment. Everyone has to walk past each other’s apartments to get in the front door, and we’ve got massive glass sliding doors for everyone to see in our lounge room. I’m not sure if I should heavily reduce or increase the amount of time I spend sitting on the couch in a pair of bright green Bonds jocks scratching my balls.

But - losing our palm trees and our privacy I can deal with, when confronted with a much bigger issue. The major problem is that we’re about to endure three weeks of our goddamn Lifestyle Channel-viewing, Dancing With the Stars-VCRing, Dido-obsessive-squealing, Bay Swiss-grocery buying tryhard yuppie neighbours sashaying past our front window every five minutes. And with a lack of any boundaries between the apartments, they better fucking not start creeping over the invisible line if they’re having one of their fucked up yuppie cocktail parties. Oh god, or even worse, trying to instigate complex-wide parties.

Meanwhile, here’s my first music tip for 2006. Remember there was that awful glut of girlbands and DJs throttling 80s pop hits by the neck and belting them into seriously woeful trancey pieces of shite last year? Someone even thought it was worth remixing that Australian Crawl song. Well, my prediction is that this terrible regurgitation will continue into some crap girl band bleating out mixes of Aussie pub rock. Come on, don’t tell me you can’t hear a hard house version of the Screaming Jets’ “Better” pulsing away at the back of your head. It’ll happen.

And for that, you have to suffer a picture of Dave Gleeson and co. Moohar.

This entry was posted on Monday, January 9th, 2006 at 10:01 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.