Two weeks ago, I was making coffee in a small Café in Germany wondering why grown German men think it’s ok to eat cake together and drink sparkling water out of little bottles with straws. Hours later I was fleeing the continent on a last-minute flight, escaping something which, until recently, was known only as a harmless Mexican beer.
Now I’m locked in my parents’ house in Christchurch, New Zealand watching my Mum solve a puzzle, listening to Dad close business deals, and inhaling the byproducts of my brother’s overworked digestive systems.
This is my life for a MINIMUM of 4 weeks.
For the past 10 years, I’ve lived in a pretty broad range of accommodation situations, in about 20 different locations. From beachside hostels in the tropics to tents in the Australian outback and as (unplanned, and desperately underqualified) live-in help for an 85-year-old Lithuanian man with a bladder problem in an apartment overlooking Bondi Beach.
But it’s been a looong time since I’ve lived with my parents. To be honest I’m probably more likely to suffer from severe mental illness in here than I am physical illness out in the wild streets of Heidelberg where Corona is free to invisibly wreak havoc.
So far, though, it’s been exactly what you might expect; Dad has worked away in his office, Mum just put the featherless plastic chickens out on tea towels to sunbathe for the afternoon, and my brother has been comfortably relaxing in his giant, inflatable chair, which he lovingly refers to as the blue vagina.
As a means to maintain some level of sanity, I plan to document the completely normal dynamics in this household full of completely normal people.