Adrian's Got the Moose

Tipsy Tokyo

Drinkers are spoiled for choice in Tokyo, the drinking culture being well established before it ever became a tourist hotspot. My capsule hotel is a two-minute walk from the famous Golden Gai. Golden Gai is a small collection of alleyways, full of tiny bars, some seating no more than five people. Before being mentioned in every travel guide, BuzzFeed article, and blog post about Tokyo, locals flocked to it, often choosing their own favourite bar. Some functioned as private clubs, with entry only permitted for members. It was especially known as a haunt for writers, which, of course, helps my fascination.

Apparently I only took a single photo — Golden Gai

Many of the bars have their own themes and have become famous in their own right, such as Open Book, filled with bookshelves and noted for its excellent lemon sours, and Deathmatch in Hell, a heavy metal-themed bar. Due to the popularity of many of these famous bars, I only ended up drinking in Golden Gai once, at a place whose name I never quite caught, hosted by the vivacious Suki. I drank alone until a group of beautiful Dutch youths showed up. On asking for the bill and finding it less than I expected due to the absence of a cover charge (very common in Tokyo, and sometimes described unfairly as a scam), Suki asked if I could shout her a shot, and of course I could not let her drink alone, and thus I had my first Tequila since the exit of a certain South African from my life.

It was the logical thing to do. — To be fair, I was a little besotted by Suki.

I found my regular drinking hole a little further away from my hotel, past the touts of Kabukicko, the holographic cat, and past a common spot where buskers plied their trade.

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Omoide Yokocho, which translates to Memory Lane, is another collection of small alleyways, better known by its earlier nickname, the less salubrious Piss Alley. When the bars here were not entirely legal post-war, there were no bathroom facilities, and punters would simply relieve themselves on the nearby train tracks. Since then, the alley has been largely gentrified, with very nice toilets hidden in between the bars, but it’s still a lot of fun. The atmosphere is great, with the smoke from the cooking meat, the hanging lanterns, and fake tree decorations; it’s a great, if difficult, place to photograph.

Also, crowded — Apparently, I didn’t take a photo of the entrance.

As well as copious draft beer and sake, the main focus here is meat skewers, cooked on a grill on the bar. The first bar I entered here became my regular place, and I became a big fan of their minced chicken skewers.

meat on a stick and beer, what more could I want? Apart from female company, of course.

The staff were fantastic and attentive, and took a genuine interest in their customers. And were happy to pose for some photos for customers.

At least I was wearing a different shirt than in my Golden Gai photos — And hamming it up!

I drank there for half an hour on my last night before catching my flight onwards to Cairo, and I felt sad that I wouldn’t see these guys again. Hopefully, I’ll get back to Tokyo sometime soon, as I found it almost as addictive as Istanbul.

A Tourist in Tokyo

Perhaps because I had trouble navigating the public transport system, I never felt like I was massively successful in visiting Tokyo’s historical sites.

The Meiji Shrine is surrounded by vegetation with minimal undergrowth. The shrine is dedicated to the spirits of Emperor Meiji and his wife, the Empress Shoken, who are most famous for the Meiji Restoration. They were both transformed into gods after their death.

At the time of my visit, the shrine was hosting a festival to honour dolls, which are often considered to have their own spirits. I couldn’t help but think sadly of my old teddy bear, stored away at my parents’ house.

I should not be shocked that there is an association.

I was definitely missing much context, as I know little about Japanese history and little about Shintoism. But at least I didn’t have to pay for the privilege, something I should have appreciated more at the time. The original complex was, as much of Tokyo, destroyed during Allied raids in World War II. It was rebuilt from publicly raised funds.

Much of the outer features of the shrine were either closed or not readily accessible, and having hiked to the Treasure Room, and finding it closed, I ended up swapping the change in my pocket for an iced tea and some chocolate from a conveniently nearby bank of vending machines, and sat under a tree and read for an hour, which seemed to be a popular choice. I lingered longer than I intended, as a group close to me seemed to be getting ready for some kind of photoshoot, but it took too long to get started, and I moved on.

Making my way back through the shrine grounds, a Canadian lady who gave her name as Mary thought I looked put together enough to ask me for directions. I walked her back to the main building before leaving her to it and making my way back to the train station.

Asakusa Shrine I found to be more interesting, perhaps because it was positioned in one of the older parts of Tokyo.

Thunder Gate, yes, it was that busy everywhere. Is that a Willow Tree to the left?

Between the main gate and the main shrine building are hundreds of small shops, selling tourist tat, traditional foods, and handicrafts, including hand-made Buddhist scrolls. I was tempted by a katana letter opener, but it seemed like the kind of thing that Customs back home would have questions about.

The Treasure House Gate is two stories high, with the upper story containing many of the shrine’s treasures. The entire area was packed with people, and I struggled to gain any type of understanding.

Some women, tourists and Japanese alike, choose this place to have photoshoots in traditional kimonos, accompanied by professional photographers or lucky boyfriends. The Japanese women here put most of the Western women to shame, perfectly poised and made up in their multitudes, like ordinary angels, routine and mobile works of art.

Perhaps it was a desperate attempt to view Tokyo as a whole rather than a bunch of train stations with their surroundings, or perhaps it was some monkey-brain need to find the tallest thing around and claim everything I could see as my own.

Whatever my motivations, I found myself waiting in line for half an hour, passing through a rigorous, but entirely polite security check, and rode in an elevator for fifty-five floors to get to the Southern Observation Deck of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building. This proves that while close to a billion US dollars were spent building the skyscraper, they spent five minutes in a committee naming it before heading to an izakaya.

The view was impressive, and the gift shop was lovely. The cafe seemed delightful, but the price for a latte were as high as I was. This may be to compensate for the free entry to the observation deck, the Japanese being oddly principled and pragmatic in that way.

On my last day in Tokyo, I decided I should see the Imperial Palace. Unfortunately, I discovered that it was only open on seemingly random hour-and-a-half blocks, so I never ended up inside the walls. I did, however, take some nice photos in the nearby Hibiya Park, which had lakes, tennis courts, and scattered historical places of interest.

The Trouble with Tokyo

Tokyo is vast and filled to capacity with both locals and tourists. The small percentage that is not filled with skyscrapers are roads, historical sites, and small, underfunded parks- That last may be unfair, but the parks I visited were poorly maintained compared to my own fair city.

The size of Tokyo, unrestrained by geography, meant it was hard for me to get a proper understanding of its soul. Wherever I went, hordes of people were moving in every direction. Personal space is mostly academic here, as every shop, elevator ride, and street is jam-packed.

I was not the only person taking selfies at the famous Scramble Crossing that day.

Tokyo’s train stations, which 99% of locals and tourists will use multiple times a day, are a confusing mess, even to the Japanese. A single station will have multiple sections within it, functioning as separate stations in their own right. Google will send you to an entrance, and ten minutes later, you discover that you cannot get to the platform you need, and you have to exit the station, walk to another entrance, and try again. I barely ever sat down in a train in Tokyo, and often struggled to even walk through the corridors without colliding with people. Perhaps because of how extensive the public transport system is, or because of my own bloody-mindedness, I managed to not resort to Uber, but I did walk a great deal, resulting in sore feet, the purchase of a cheap pair of sneakers from an amused elderly man running a hole in the wall shop in Asakusa, and the abandoning of an expensive pair of well-worn hiking shoes that had survived my entire three month SE Asia trip.

I found the Japanese to be faultlessly polite, and often highly reserved unless alcohol is involved. Many people online have mentioned that Japan has a deeply conflict-avoidant mindset. Often, bad behaviour will be ignored, rather than have more attention drawn to the behaviour, Which may explain why serial pests like Johnny Somali managed to make so much content in Japan. In many ways, this leads to a harmonious society. I don’t think I heard a raised Japanese voice in the five days I was there. However, I suspect that the same conflict-avoidance prevents their society, both people and government, from addressing the homeless and disenfranchised youth.

On the Subtle Art of Washing your Testicles Amongst other Sets of Testicles

I have stayed in capsules (also known as pods, or coffins if one is feeling disparaging, or claustrophobic) in Singapore, Bangkok, Jerusalem, and Phnom Penh. But this is the first time I have stayed in a purpose-built capsule hotel. Japan, of course, is where this method of accommodation originated, with the idea that drunk salarymen who missed the last train home needed a cheap place to sleep, sober up, and start again in the morning. It’s the same thought process that leads convenience stores in Japan to sell underwear and socks. For budget travellers in a country known for being tough on even a generous travel budget, they are an ideal alternative to hostels, providing a place to sleep, attend to personal hygiene, and to have a tiny piece of privacy, which is in short supply in Tokyo.

By Chris 73 / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19656 Same model capsule as in my hotel.

Two things bugged me about this capsule hotel. The first being the fact that even with my multiple-night booking, I still had to vacate the hotel by 1100 every day, and my belongings evicted to a tiny locker or the luggage storage room on the top floor. The second was the public baths, which were the only option for bathing for men staying at this hotel.

You strip naked at your locker, and enter the main bathroom, where you sit at a plastic stool set in front of a set of taps and a wall-long mirror. Shower gel and shampoo are provided, and here is where you lather up your entire body, scrub, and then rinse off. Once you are clean enough, you are free to have a soak in one of the spa baths or use the sauna.

Now you are clean and relaxed, you sit at what amounts to bathroom sinks, and brush your teeth, do your hair, shave, etc.. Still, during all this, you are supposed to be completely naked. Once again, I was supplied with a hair dryer with no hair to dry. Once you are satisfied with your appearance, or at least manage to delude yourself that you are in fact highly attractive, you discard your towel and dress in the super sexy robes provided by the hotel, and lounge around for the rest of the night.

With every selfie, the eye bags get a little bigger.

The Japanese, of course, take all this nudity in their stride. It’s part of their culture, and I suspect they think no more about it than I do when getting changed at gyms. They don’t exactly strut around, but act as if its the most normal thing to be naked, which of course it would be if we didn’t get screwed over by a snake.

Numerous times in my five-night stay, I used this shared space every night, and every night I noticed a new resident walk in, look confused, look for the shower stalls they were expecting, before trying to look nonchalant and getting on with it. Most notably was a six foot six African gentleman, who had more muscle mass in his neck than I can claim all over, looking around bashfully, trying to wrap the towel around himself modestly (they seem to be made so you cannot quite do this) before getting on with it like everyone else. This was in constrast to the fact that he had nothing to be bashful about, having a body that most of us are envious of.

At first I was also awkward, but after the second night, I got used to it and enjoyed the process. Then it got routine, then tedious. By the last night, I was wishing I could just have a quick shower without getting involved in a ritual. I was also thinking that at some point I was going to get up arse up, slipping on the slippery tiles-Who thought that was a good idea? I’ll tell you one thing about bathing in company, it does wonders for your willingness to take your time washing everywhere when you are surrounded by men doing the same.

A Coffee Tour of Tokyo

Having managed to escape the airport and get the Limo Bus to Shinjuku, I promptly got lost and ended up in the heart of Kabukicho, which at least let me take a photo of one of the prominent landmarks.

I was very glad I knew about this, and was entirely sober.

Once I got myself geographically sorted, I arrived at my capsule hotel. Predictably, they were in the process of kicking people out rather than letting people in, so I dumped my bag with the big pile of other luggage at reception. I had barely slept on the plane, and my central nervous system was making unreasonable demands for sleep, intimacy, and stimulants. Only one of those things was practical and readily available for purchase. It was time for coffee, and what better way to start getting my head around the place than a coffee tour?

Lawsons, Shinjuku.

My first caffeine hit needed to be convenient, immediate, and no-nonsense. I managed to find a Lawsons just around the corner from the hotel. It tasted like you would expect coffee in a can to taste, overly sweet, a little metallic, but had the intended effect. Mostly, I choose it because Suntory makes some excellent whiskey. While I was there, I also managed to withdraw some cash from their ATM. 6\10, iced coffee might be the only thing Australia does better than Japan.

Tomato Cafe, Shinjuku

A short walk from my hotel towards Kabukicho, this place reminded me of Dome back home, only with Italian pretensions. The place was showing a lot of wear and tear, but the cappuccino was quite decent, and by now I was feeling human enough to read my Kindle. 7\10, loses points for the chipped furniture.

Maid Dreamin, Shinjuku

I should stop being in selfies with people cuter than me.

Maid Cafes are common, with various franchisees and concepts, Maid Dreamin being a more generic form as far as I can tell. For a considerable sum, I enjoyed a fairly bland coffee, which featured a magical incantation, and from a distance (courtesy of a group of Americans) a dance performance. I felt ludicrous, but did enjoy the attention, specifically non-sexual, as it was supposed to be from my maid. While I am certainly not immune to kawaii, the whole experience was a little too close to some boundaries I have. 7\10, a fun but one-time-only thing.

Warhammer Cafe, Akihabara

I am a big Warhammer 40K nerd, I read a lot of the books but don’t play the game, as soon as I discovered they had this in Tokyo, I knew I had to have a look. The cafe was really just a counter, and I had to take a seat at a bench set up for painting miniatures, and it did take quite a long time to get my latte. While I waited, the manager sat next to me and had a chat, mostly about the hobby and maid cafes, which he informed me about a cyberpunk-themed maid cafe around the corner, which sounded interesting, but I never ended up visiting. I enjoyed some people watching, noting with interest that quite a few couples were walking in and having a look around- proving that indeed some 40K fans have known the touch of a woman. But after a quick look at the displays, there was nothing to keep me here, and I departed. 6/10, would not go out of my way to have coffee here again.

Glitch Coffee, Ginza

“Staff will wear black, customers white, no exceptions”

Down a side road just off from the main shopping area, my Google searches often resulted in mentioning this place as the best coffee in Tokyo. I had to line up for half an hour outside the shop. At first, I enjoyed the wait, listening to the Russian spoken by the couple in line in front of me, and trying to start a conversation with a Japanese man wearing a vintage Nick Cave shirt walking past with his friends. This turned to frustration when it became obvious that the Russian couple gave every indication that this was their first outing without supervision, having a lengthy and ultimately one-sided argument with the staff about their payment policy ( I thought everyone knew by now that having both card and cash is always a good idea when travelling?). Then I was allowed in and able to sniff some beans before ordering. I ordered a short machhiato and selected Catubba Bourbon beans from Colombia. Rather than be seated near the Russians, I sat at the bar and within a few minutes had my drink in front of me.

The average person has between two thousand and ten thousand tastebuds, I now know I have six thousand, six hundred and three. Each tastebud in my mouth started singing Accidentally Kelly Street by Frente! as soon as the crema hit them. When I finished my coffee, they started sulking, knowing that they would never be so happy again. I didn’t linger after my drink and headed back to the train station. When I checked my banking app I realised that while that drink was pricy, it was still cheaper than what I paid for Maid Dreamin, so I felt further justified in going out of my way for this experience.

One Night in Bangkok

By the time I managed to escape Suvarnabhumi Airport and reach my hotel, it was well past midnight. All I wanted was a cold shower and sleep, but that seemed disrespectful to turn my back on Thailand’s most infamous party street without at least having one drink. I changed into shorts and flip-flops and headed to Khao San Road. It was pumping, and I did a lap, politely declining offers of booze, weed, ladyboys, and less charming suggestions of ping-pong shows. I stopped at the quiet end, at one of those stalls that were nothing more than an esky and some cheap seating, and ordered a big bottle of Chang. The beer went down quickly and easily, and I decided it was past my bedtime, so it was best to leave the party to those half my age.

Taking my preferred shortcut through Suzie Lane, a stunningly attractive African American woman hugged me, and asked where I was from. If I were drunk, I would have told her she was beautiful, but weary and all too sober, like an idiot, I headed back to my room.

I stayed one night in a hotel on Tani Street called the Secret Service, featuring Cold War-era spy equipment and movie posters.

More important to me right now was the private bathroom and air-con. I took a cold shower and shaved, and slept for five hours. In the late morning, I packed and checked out, and after coffee, I started walking towards the Grand Palace. I took a kind of metro station bypass to avoid crossing the busy road, and made a note of the people sleeping in the air-conditioning before emerging near the entrance. While the Grand Palace is very impressive, dealing with the maddening crowd was a little more than I should be expected to deal with, and I did a lap then departed.

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Get out of the way, maybe?

Heading back to Khao San, I walked along a road next to a canal. Bangkok’s poor were selling meager second-hand goods, often curled up to sleep next to their goods on blankets or, often just cardboard. Whatever money was to be had could not have amounted to much, and this was only a five-minute walk from the bars and massage shops of Khao San. Having time to kill until I needed to get to the airport, after coffee, I spent a pleasant two hours at a massage place that didn’t need pretty girls to lure people in. Feeling very loose, I spoiled the whole effect by getting motion sick in the Grab car, to the extent that I began to be concerned about cleaning fees.

An Open Letter to the how to vote Hobgoblins and their candidates

Gerrit Ballast, Australian Christians: Do you really think someone with tattoos, four piercings, a three day growth of beard on a Saturday morning, and currently hands that look like they were washed in sulfuric acid is going to vote for you? Mentulam caco.

Mario Lionetti, Independent: Yeah, no party would touch this guy, his biggest claim to fame is his videos where he is yelling at his fellow candidates, and how they won’t acknowledge his existence and debate him. If all the other candidates died in a series of unfortunate, unlikely, and darkly amusing events, does anyone actually think he would be capable of transporting himself north of Mount Barker to get to Parliament?

Phillip Arnatt, Legalise Cannabis Party WA: Okay cool, I am in favour of that, but do you have any other policies or opinions?

Lyn Maclaren, The Greens WA: The Greens are routinely derided for being ineffective and at the same time blamed for destroying whole industries when they manage to push through mild changes. Their policies are broadly aligned with my beliefs so they get my vote. I also know it will be a cold day in hell before they are elected in my hick town, but I can still dream.

Rebecca Stephens- WA Labor: Ah, our nominal mainstream left-wing party, that right-wing voters seem to think is as far left as Karl Marx. Recently I have been accused of being a hippie Labor voter, when in reality I’m much further to the left. Current seat holder and still the favourite.

Scott Leary, The Nationals WA: The Nationals were created to represent farmers, but we are supposed to ignore that they are happy to hang those farmers out to dry when mining companies show up with bags of cash. Also, they seem to assume that non-farmers don’t vote.

Synjon Anstee-Brook- Shooters, Fishers, and Farmers Party WA: Well, I am not any of those things. They are trying really hard not to be known as libertarian, which they clearly are. They seem to think every Australian has a dire need to own dozens of guns. They also seem to think the bush is just a place to trash with their Hiluxes.

Quinton Bischoff- One Nation: You guys usually don’t try to hand me a how to vote card, which I always take as a compliment. One Nation is the party for the ignorant, the uneducated, and the bigoted. Actually, now that I think of it they are what the Australian Christians would be with criminal records and less teeth. The fact that Quinton is an immigrant himself (but a white South African, so a good one in their view) is interesting. So many One Nation candidates are ex-cons I am beginning to suspect it’s a preselection prerequisite.

Tom Brough- Liberal Party: Strange how the Libs and his own website neglect to mention his linking the LGBTQIA+ community with pedophilia or his anti-vax and anti-choice views. The Libs party leader considers him to be bizarre but is desperate to have anyone contesting the seat. Many of his election posters have been vandalised, which has been highly entertaining

Due to the tedious nature of this post, please accept this video of bunnies being arseholes.

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The Collected Poetic Works of Adrian

For my sins, and because I didn’t take any leave leading up to the festive season, I was sent to work with the only person in Street Trees still working, a casual, to help out with their watering of the most recently planted verge trees. Thus, I spent two days with my hand out the window, watering plants, talking shit and being a solid passenger princess.

At lunch, the conversion took an unexpected turn; poetry and masculinity. I mentioned the proud tradition of male poets in Iran, as well as our own traditional of bush poetry. Conner, in a display of ego so common in Street Trees workers, declared that he has recently challenged himself to write a poem for his wife every week. Not willing this to go unanswered, I mentioned that I had written a poem from the point of view of The Most Recent Ex, about her love for koalas and my obvious inadequacy compared to them. I also stated that it was a shame that no one else had ever seen it, as I had planned to read it out to the Peel Street Poetry Club in Hong Kong with her next time I visited Hong Kong. Conner said that I should publish the poem somewhere, just on principle. It was the only half way intelligent thing he said all day.

So here is the poem, most likely the only one I will ever write, assuming of course that it could even be considered a poem.

My Australian lover is not as cute as a koala,
But is blessedly free of chlamydia
He doesn’t eat leaves,
He does eat too much beef jerky
He doesn’t live in a tree,
But dreams of living in a tree-house
He is not much smarter than a koala,
But is just smart enough to date me
There is no Wikipedia heading for Adrian Poetry,
But he did buy me a fountain pen
There are no conservation efforts to save Adrian,
But he is involved in conservation efforts
My Australian lover is vastly inferior to a koala,
But he will have to do until I can get an import permit.

In absence of a photo of a koala, or an ex, please accept this Mount Melville.

The Passing of a Prince of a Spaniel

Buddy, my family’s cocker spaniel, is no longer in pain. I stayed, patting his head while the vet gave him the injection. When Buddy breathed his last, I kissed him on the nose and walked out, not bothering to hide my tears from the vet, my mum waiting in the reception, or the nurse.

Buddy came to our family as a young adult from Shenton Park Dog Refuge, he had been given the name Forrest, but no one knew his history. Buddy was an overweight bundle of anxiety. I had always thought that he came from a family who loved him, but due to sickness or circumstances, could not spend much time with him, and attempted to compensate by feeding him more. After the passing of Dasha, who we had from a puppy, I honestly thought I would never bond again with another dog with the same intensity. That idea dissolved as soon as I saw Buddy. he trotted over to me, whimpering softly, demanding love and attention. Buddy soon learned to associate me with walks, Buddy stayed anxious, but soon had everyone he met, including some neighbourhood children, wrapped around his paws. He often crawled up on my dad’s lap to fall asleep, only waking when he knew his dinner was around the corner.

A year ago, Buddy started needing coaxing to go for walks, and his anxiety seemed to be getting worse. A month before the fateful vet visit, I couldn’t get him to go for walks at all. I would lay down on the floor with him, patting him, just to make sure he knew I was there, and cared for him still. When he was not sleeping, he would be walking around the house, looking confused, often bumping into things. In the last week, he gave up eating.

On the last day, I received a call from my brother, and raced straight to the vet after work to meet Mum and Buddy at the vets. Buddy refused the treat the lovely nurse offered him. When we saw the vet, Buddy moved listlessly around the room, looking confused and unsteady. The prognosis was bad, while efforts could be made to extend his life, he was a very old dog, and the end result may just be extending his suffering. The decision was made, as horrible as it was.

I’ll always remember the happier days, my beautiful boy.

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Garrett The Goblin

In my home, there lives a goblin with an appetite for Bolle safety glasses.

Many of the more interesting cultures in the world, past and present, feature household spirits. Spirits, minor deities or fairies, if treated right, offer protection to the household, good fortune, or help with domestic duties. Typically, one placates such creatures by offerings of food and drink, sometimes incense, and sometimes a small, symbolic house for them to live in. Then your household spirit will help you keep a happy home. If you neglect the needs of your spirit, you might suffer from mischief, such as a disloyal spouse, soured milk, or your car keys going missing moments before you leave the house for work. To many, household spirits seem odd, but keeping them happy is considered serious business in Spain, Scotland, much of Asia, and one modest apartment in Albany, WA.

Domovoy, a household deity in Slavic countries, typically represented by statues like this,usually placed near the front door, or the heath. Domovoy. (2024, September 9). In *Wikipedia*. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domovoy

Garrett the Goblin lives between the brick and plasterboard in the wall facing my driveway. He is squat, unbelievably ugly, has bad posture, and smells of Lynx Africa.

Garrett has no interest in the food and drink I leave out, and the smelly candles I burn make him sneeze. Garrett can only be placated by offerings of safety glasses. He is not impressed by my Oakleys or my prescription glasses. The safety glasses from Bunnings barely satisfy him for a few hours, and then he will be making my taps leak and unlocking doors. Only Bolles will do.

The safety glasses are supplied by my work, I wear them for a few days then leave them on my desk. When I next run to the kitchen for a drink I hear him scarper over to the desk, snatch the Bolles, then squeeze himself back into the wall cavity via the hole I have never gotten around to fixing behind the TV.

The gatekeepers of PPE at my work are three ladies. How do I explain to these modern, rational, and sophisticated women that I live with a goblin whose mischief can only be mitigated by safety glasses? Audrey thinks I am touched in the head. Carissa believes I am unhealthily fond of the smell of newly minted plastic. Talia suspects I am selling them on the black market in former Soviet Bloc countries to feed my iced coffee habit, but can prove nothing.

In the end, the disdain is an uncomfortable, but small price to pay. Usually, Garrett’s ugliness is hidden from view, nothing has needed repairing for ages, the cost of living crisis has not forced me to get a housemate, and goblins are excellent deterrents to porch-pirates.