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A Flat Holiday

April 26th, 2011 by admin

Wazzer had spent her newly free Saturday night out partying with some of her old flatmates. Their past quarrel was washed away on a tide of pinot gris. Sunday morning found her somewhat bleary on the couch of their new abode, a slightly shabby villa on an Island Bay side street, while the household bustled about. “We’re having flat Easter brunch!” said a curly-haired guy she hadn’t met before.

This did not mean that they were having a brunch of super-thin omelets, crepes, and minimal melon slices. They were celebrating Eastertide as the quasi-family household they called “the flat.” It’s a very disorderly quasi-family, in its late 2os and early 30s. Wazzer is having a hard time identifying “the flat mum,” the person who snaps first and draws up the dishwashing roster, but who also buys the other flatmates orange juice and tissues when they’re sick. There’s got to be one –  each place at the table has a chocolate Easter egg, a sign that there’s a flat mum somewhere in the picture.

Soon, the flat mum outs herself by brightly inviting Wazzer to join them. “We’ve got heaps,” she says. The two young blokes in the flat have a show-offy chef streak and are whisking plates heaped with eggs, bacon, sausages, and pancakes to the table. Wazzer is happy to demolish a plateful. “Great tucker! Mind if I grab the last pancake?” she asks the flat mum.

One of the lads grins, “You don’t have to ask her for pancakes! Demand them! With a boot to the head!”

“Pancakes in your face, mate!” brays the other one.

“Pancakes…for your mom!”

For five minutes, this is the funniest thing they have ever heard. Then someone cracks a Cadbury creme egg over his pancake stack, setting off a frenzy of disgusted squeals and cellphone photo-snapping. Wazzer laughs until she coughs, even though these shenanigans aren’t helping her hangover.  She’s bloody glad she’s not the flat mum to this rowdy lot.

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