Nothing written for tomorrow. Well I mean now, like today, no I mean as I am writing Sunday night for Monday morning. I will just dash this off. Saturday night we caught up with our dyke friend, even though she had taken us out for dinner a few nights earlier after we looked after her dog Jack while she was away. It was her birthday celebration dinner at The Dick Hotel. The staff as always were terrific. The food was good.
I went straight from work, picked up the Brighton Antique Dealer from Balaclava Station, and R caught the tram there. A friend of our dyke friend who attended is Edinburgh born, so it was interesting to hear her views on the Scottish independence vote.
R and ex NT policeman/politician called me outside to the carpark when they arrived. Our Brother Friends weren't there. The afore mentioned had attended Brother Friends' house auction earlier in the day in far eastern suburbs. Their weatherboard house sold for nearly a million dollars, bought by you know who from you know which country. If you must know, search for auction results in the south area of Box Hill, and you can work it out. It is kind of sad for us even. Their house holds such history for us, parties, good times and not so good times with a police raid once even. Why do four males have flamboyant dresses in wardrobes, they asked. History now, and of course if the walls could talk.
I was at work, so R smsed the auction result to me, so that wasn't the reason I was hauled out to the car park for a serious conversation.
The news was devastating and our Brother Friends' long held plans for moving to Thailand to live are on hold.
I will leave you up in the air at this point, only because I need to think carefully about what I say. Although I am not normally drawn to using bad language, this really is shit.