This house perched right on Blackwattle Bay, well, I dream of it being mine the way a fashionista dreams of acquiring that elusive piece of Chanel couture or a cake-anista dreams of being the one who always gets the last piece of triple chocolate fudge cake.
When I was younger I dreamt of marrying Paul Weller, the singer from British band The Jam. That didn’t happen which is probably just as well because it seems he’s a bit of a grumpy person – artistically temperamental – so we would probably have fought all the time anyway. The thing is with Paul Weller I knew deep down I wasn’t going to marry him. I mean, I’m not completely delusional and eventually I let go of learning to sign my last name as Weller; but I can’t let go of my house envy. I’ve got it bad for that house and that ain’t good.
I picture myself looking out of the top floor window where I would have a spectacular view of the bridge and all the boats I love as well as sitting on the balcony sipping home made lemonade (possibly with a little alcoholic flavour boost) while giving a bit of a royal wave to anyone who passed by.
Logically, I know the only way I will get this house is if I get a sugar daddy (and at this stage I would even settle for a sugar mummy) or if I win the lottery. Incidentally, did you know the odds of winning Powerball are 27, 489,577 to one?
I actually have more chance of being injured by my toilet bowl cleaner at 173,972 to one or going to prison this year at 139 to one. I might pull an ace out of a deck of cards at 13 to one or pick the trifecta in a horse race at 1716 to one but I’m more likely to hire a sleazy lawyer at 8 to one or be an Australian living in Melbourne or Sydney at 2.6 to one.
(Odds from Lottery Odds.)
I think the odds are stacked against me. I think I might just have to face facts and admit the house on the bay will never be mine. It’s hard. House envy is a difficult thing to get over.
At least dreaming is free.