Oh, the assumptions one makes.
I decide to have a small house warming party. Cupboard warming, actually, since the entire apartment, excluding the bathroom, measures 3.3 x 4 metres.
And I decide to invite the neighbours.
I've already met my next-door neighbour by dint of banging on his door, introducing myself, and then asking his help getting two mattresses and a bed off the top of the car.
Might as well make the terms of the relationship clear up front, I thought, and Alfonso, a young El Salvadoran Australian of many sisters and a cheerful disposition, turns out to be a bloody great neighbour.
Buoyed by my success I try another door, this time one of a huge, multi-storied house that I assume is owned by the extremely well-to-do.
I should explain at this point that Kings Cross is the most densely populated suburb of Australia. Right next to downtown Sydney, it comprises block after block of apartments built for returning soldiers after the World Wars, 3-4 storied mansions which overlook - or used to overlook - different parts of Sydney Harbour and which are now occupied by the fabulously wealthy or, in their revamped form, numerous men who are old, sick or close to destitution.
And then there is accommodation now built into everything else. My 'apartment' is not one inside the actual apartment block, but a converted concrete storage room underneath its stairs.
Very Harry Potter.
To return to the story: After pressing the door bell again, a middle-aged, well-dressed, well-groomed woman pops out, confirming my assumption about the occupants of such costly real estate, and I extend the invitation.
We chat about the Cupboard's previous tenant and his merits (not many since it eventuates he was a dealer of heroin and other goodies) and I leave feeling some trepidation as Pauline's chief gripe re Johnno (probably not the right time here to go into Australian nomenclature) is that his language is obscene.
Oh uh.
Not to worry. I choof off and think no more of it.
So I've just finished laying out the paté, brie, grapes, sweet chilli eggs, nachos, strawberries and chocolate fondue when Pauline arrives with another lady (mother? friend?) and two beautifully mannered and well looked after little girls.
“We've got them for the weekend” announces Pauline, handing over a bottle of red and some chocolates, and I wonder vaguely which of this apparently lesbian couple is grandma, and which had the broker or barrister's career. I'm thrilled they've turned up. My Cupboard's first guests!
Pretty soon, the ladies are perched on the sofa bed with a glass of wine each and, while the girls make great inroads into the celery and homous dip, they mention that until recently, Margaret also lived with them.
Call me conservative, but I am now officially befuddled. Three women? Living together? Dressed like this? No way.
A few questions later however, my confusion clears. The ladies are nuns who, as well as working with the homeless, addicted, and mentally ill, provide respite care for the children of an intellectually disabled mother.
Of course!
The Catholic Church must own the house.
Of course!
From different orders, Pauline provides medical care when she can, whilst Noelene is the chaplain in the Injecting Room (aka Shooting Gallery), where addicts can be medically – and, I belatedly realise, spiritually - supervised as they shoot up heroin, ensuring that you no longer hear the sirens of ambulances carting off the dead and the streets of the Cross (Kings Cross, people; this isn't a religious reference) are not littered with needles, syringes and chunks of bloodied cotton wool.
Big improvement.
The little girls are now leaning out of the doorway, flagging down other passing nuns who are heading for their regular weekly gathering.
At the Swan's Football Club for fish and chips.
That'll teach you to make assumptions.
“Oh I'd love a glass. Thank you!” And soon there are four in my apartment.
Gotta love the Cross.
Non-religious do attend my party. Fifteen in all, chocked in on stools, the sofa, the floor and my single red fluffy bean bag. But not the neighbours next to the nuns.
He owns a large dog and spends time in Chicago for work. I had assumed Arthur Andersen which is based there but given my recent success with assumptions, he's probably an opera singer. Or gangland boss.
As the final guest leaves, Alfonso says to me, “Your friends are really eclectic, Simone.”
LOL. Well, my new friends at least. I've organised to gate crash their next Friday gathering.
Nachos Dip (recipe from the can):
Spread a small packet of cream cheese across a pie plate.
Pour over one can of beans/beef chilli.
Pour over one jar of salsa.
Sprinkle lots of cheese over the top.
Bake in a fairly low oven until melted & mushy.
Spread with guacamole (optional)
Serve as a dip with tortilla chips.
Yours in peace and community,
Simone the Eclectically Friendly
PS: During my Cupboard-Warming, in what I believe is legally referred to for compensation purposes as an Act of God, the Swan's Football Club's roof was destroyed by torrential rain. Hmmm. God not in favour of nuns in the community? God not in favour of their attending house parties? Food for contemplation.
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