22 February 2017
The house-delivery night was like one of those strange dreams that you have when you’re going someplace the next day that’s filled with music and marshmallows and waterfalls and puppies and the other Top 6 Creations Ever Created.
Everything’s going well until suddenly your legs get trapped in invisible quicksand and you miss your flight by 5.2 seconds.
Or, you wake up in your dream, all ready to go on your most bestest adventure ever and everyone you’re meant to be going with has vanished – the house is empty. You suddenly realise that A: they have been abducted by the previously perfectly innocent but now mutinous sheep in your paddock; or B: they left without you.
Just like in my real life version of the dream.
Tuesday night. I finally went to sleep, and napped fitfully all night until 5, when my alarm went. I had given mama the absolute strictest instructions to wake me under any circumstances – I did not want to miss the house arriving.
That would be like watching a classic makeover/tranformation scene in the movies, and then somehow gluing your eyelids together just as the person turns around.
Actually, that analogy doesn’t seem dire enough… how about travelling to Siberia to see the annual tiger migration (because there is one, ok), when your dog sled mysteriously breaks down, and everyone else races past with their dog sleds and crouches all hushed on a mountain and watches a river of white tigers (your favourite animal, obviously) while you cry icicles onto your face down in the valley. Does that convey the importance of not missing this moment? I hope so.
So when I *woke* (poor choice of word – it implies that I slept prior) at 5am, and I thought to myself, I had better not go downstairs until I hear my parentals up and about, they need their sleep, and so I kept lying there while the clock kept throwing time away and then it was 5:30am and I text mama to ask if the house was arriving and had she heard anything and then it was 6am, and then the sun rose, and I knew that A: the house had arrived without me being there (the trucks aren’t allowed to drive after 6am) or B: the house had fallen off the truck and spontaneously exploded and was now a wispy pile of ash beside State Highway 1.
I got up, and grabbed my bike and pedalled down the endless driveway while I rehearsed my finest-ever angry speech for my parents who had clearly failed their only duty and arrived at the house spot and saw this.
Just so it’s crystal clear: there was no house.
I swear mama and papa have never taken longer to get up than they did that morning. I can’t remember what I did to fill the time, but when they finally got up, as always happens after a dream, you realise things aren’t quite so drastic as all that, and actually the house will probably be fine.
First, the house trucks had hit roadworks (not ACTUALLY hit them!) and then one of the engines had trouble, so the guys had fixed it, then there was traffic, and then it was 5:30am and there were too many cars on the road (the height of rudeness! Didn’t the people of the world know not to drive at that ungodly hour?), so the guys parked the trucks in a tiny town on SH1 and said they were going to drive the rest of the way the next night.
Meanwhile, all my indignant anger at mama and papa evaporated instantly when I heard they had barely slept either, decided to get up at 4:30am and wait at the entrance of the driveway to listen for the sound of the engines. They waited for an hour and a half.
Mama, being the very embodiment of an optimistic romantic, said that it had actually been deliciously peaceful and they had seen shooting stars.
Nevertheless, at that point I was glad they hadn’t woken me.
And that is how the house did not arrive.
This post is already ridiculously long, probably because it’s late at night and I haven’t written in a while so I’m just vomiting the strangeness of my mind onto the keyboard. I’m going to have to sleep now and write the honest-to-goodness house arrival story (in a much briefer fashion) in another post.