Here Is The Story Of The Stupid Bunk Bed

This is Claire. She is clearly laughing at my misfortune of being a bunk bed owner.
This is Claire. She is clearly laughing at my misfortune of being a bunk bed owner.

My bunk bed has been quite the topic on this little blog. I’ve brought it up a few times. Well at least twice. This bunk bed however has not been all sleep-overs, cookies and cubby houses. I’m not going to lie, that’s pretty much EXACTLY what I thought it would be.

‘Disappointed’ would be the understatement of the week and a half. (Just to clarify… it’s a week and a half because last Sunday I called someone “silly” and it turned out they are actually psychotically stupid…so this NEW biggest understatement can only date back until then…)

I blame the manner in which this bunk bed found its way into my life, for all disaster that followed.

To start with, I bought it off gumtree. The home of most disappointments. It’s the eharmony of real estate and used furniture. Never what it seems.

After deciding this white little bed was going to be mine, I borrowed my auntie’s car and drove all the way BlahBlahFarawayVille to pick it up.

Well, actually, more accurately, just prior to this I went and had coffee with my ex-boyfriend. Who shall remain cooompletely anonymous. (We went to his favourite café Gusto around the corner from his house in Paddington at around 11 because he works as a personal trainer and has the middle of the day off when he isn’t at university studying Physiotherapy or visiting his parents in Rockhampton.)

So anyway my ex drives a big-boy car. A red 4-wheel drive. (number plate: KLA….. nah nah nah I’m kidding that would toooootally give away who I am talking about.) Anyway I told him I was picking up my new bed and expressed concern that it wouldn’t fit in the car I had borrowed.

He expressed concern that I had accidentally time-travelled back to 2010 and was trying to guilt trip him into completing a boyfriend-designed task. Busted custard. Oh how we LOLLED.

So he wished me luck and I was on my way. Miss Independent. My favourite Ne-Yo track of all time.

I arrived at BlahBlahFarawayVille right on time and was greeted by a lovely Chilean woman. She showed me where my new white princess bed pieces were and helped me load them into my wee car. There were millions of them. Bunks are hectic.

“Umm sorry Marty- Ess…” (this is obviously my cool Chilean name) “… this is not going to fit.”

Christ-almighty-mother-above-pretzels-and-cheese she was right. There was no chance.

‘Marty-Ess, you need a bigger car.”

Right again former-bunk owner. You foreign genius you.

I had no choice but to call Jer… ….… Jerry* (N.B * fake name for totally anonymous ex-boyfriend.) He was not very happy at all. He did not want to drive to BlahBlahFarawayVille apparently. I told him I would pay him $70. That was all the cash in my wallet. And I did a very good damsel-in-distress voice. I sent him the address and he began the long commute.

The lady invited me to sit in the house and pat her cat while she fussed about the kitchen. She explained to me that she had to leave in 10 minutes to go pick up her mother-in-law from the airport and that when that happened, I would have to wait outside.

10 minutes came around quite quickly if you ask me. As did the storm brewing above Sydney. Before I knew it, I was on the street, no mates, no jacket, in the pouring rain holding a piece of my new bunk bed above my head as an umbrella of sorts.

He finally arrived. We wrestled with metal and wood in the puddles and exchanged some pretty ‘curt’ words. I also accidentally ripped the lining on his roof, but he doesn’t know that yet. Shhh.

Needless to say. Picking up the bunk bed was a F*#^. I was $70 dollars down, dripping wet and much much much behind schedule. Jerry and I lost each other on the drive back to Bondi and my phone died. So the convoy was basically a catastrophe. But we got there eventually.

Jerry was in a rush so he had to leave me in the alleyway behind my new flat with all the bits and pieces that were about to become my undoing. I double parked my car and starting ferrying everything indoors. I came out on my second to last trip to be greeted by a friendly neighbour who welcomed me to the street by yelling:

“Oi are you retarded or just dumb!!!?!?! Don’t park your car there!! I can’t get my van into my parking space!!! NO WONDER YOU DON’T HAVE A MAN HELPING YOU!!!!!”

So all in all. To cut a long story….. (well, no, to be fair, I have let this one run a little long)… but anyway in a coconut shell, my bunk bed was put together through lots of tears and fury. Not a good energy to put into your new resting place.

Since then it has just been one calamity after another. Slipping off the ladder. Banging my head. The never-ending dull pain that used to be my back, dropping things from the top, needing to pee, guest relations and scary fear-of-heights nightmares.

So everyone. I would now like to publically announce that the bunk days are over. This is also a possible title for the sequel to the Florence and Machine classic hit ‘the dog days are over’. I have recently taken it upon myself to warn people about the dangers of re-entering the bunk world. It’s just not worth it guys. It’s just not. Leave it to the tweens. Just like Bieber.

sarah 1sarah 2

Gotta love and leave ya. xx

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