I'm Not Dead, Yet!

It’s 9 pm on a Tuesday night and I’m sitting alone in my swanky office amidst a sea of lingerie. Corsets, suspenders, knickers, waspies, chemises and dribs and drabs of other pretty, naughty things. It’s not the stunning city skyline keeping me back late, It’s the fact that I have nowhere else to go tonight. 

I’m a homeless bitch in fancy lingerie. 

I wish I was just being dramatic but in true Heaven on Bourke style my life has taken another unexpected turn, in the absolute wrong direction. 

It was 5:30 pm when we found out that someone had tried to pry open the door to the Dirthouse. Did a really fucking good job at getting in, he did. Smashed the whole exterior of the lock and demolished the key hole. 

Four current Queens stood on the street of Surry Hills in front of the DH as the sun sank beneath a blanket of darkness.

“If he actually got in, I’m going to die.” I said thinking of my laptop full of private 20-something year old girls business. 

“I should have gone to yoga.” said Sammie, one of the delightful British expats who moved in to cover Ms L's rent.

“This locksmith is fucking hopeless” Ms P said pacing back and forth on the footpath. 

“If I can’t get in, whoever did this definitely didn’t get in either” the pudgy bald man said flashing his torch in our faces. 

I felt a mammoth wave relief followed by dread in the pit of my stomach. Who would do this and why? Surely a terrace that looks like a crack den isn’t the most desirable target for theft, I mean while it’s all Laura Ashley inside, from the outside it looks nothing short of a homeless shelter. An hour later we were finally in and dread was soon overcome by exhaustion. I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a shallow sleep. 

*

“I though the scream was in my dream.” Ms P shuddered at the end of my bed, two trembling figures came to the entrance of my door. 

“Whats wrong?” I asked trying to comprehend was was happening. It must have been about 2 am.

“A man just smashed through Sam's window and threatened to kill her, he’s looking for a girl who lives here.” Ms P said fearfully. A chill ran up my spine. 

“Did he get inside?” I asked Sammie who had now walked from the door to my bed. 

“I don’t know.” she said. 

I froze and didn’t dare to ask any more. After multiple calls the police arrived 45 minutes later. 

Lesson #1 of being a 20-something in the big city, if there is ever an incident no matter how small you must report it.

Why? It means that if something else happens the police will make you their first priority. 

“Why didn’t you make a report when you first discovered the attempted break and enter?” the police woman asked us like we were four naughty children.

“Because our landlord told us not to worry about it.”

Lesson #2 of being a 20-something in the big city, when in doubt don’t listen to your landlord, listen to your gut.  

Sammie began to recount the series of sinister affairs to the police, I sat in shock. Apparently he was looking for someone by the name of Madonna. Although it was absurd, he was convinced that someone by that name was in here, so much so that he smashed her front window trying to get in. The worst bit was that he threatened to come back until he found her.

I wanted to be sick. No doubt it was the same psycho who had tried to break into the Dirthouse earlier.

“It sounds like mistaken identity,” the woman said finally.

No shit Sherlock, there’s only one Madonna I know of and she definitely doesn’t reside in the Dirthouse. 

"Chances are whoever it was, they won’t be back.” The other policeman concluded closing his little policeman book.

We all looked at each other. I sure as hell wasn't sticking around to find out.

                                                                                                

*

And so here I am a week out from my big European holiday, working more than ever and actually contemplating sleeping on a bed of lingerie instead of going back to the place where I have lived for the last 3 years. 

Is this the end of The Dirthouse?

A message flashes up on my screen. 

I’m here

Before you merde your pants the message isn't from the Madge obsessed psycho killer. It's from Mr P.S

Where? I reply. I didn't asked him to come.

Out the front of your office … the three dots danced on my screen as he typed ...

I’ve got booze, I've got Misschu's dumplings and ...

I’ve got you baby.

Thank god for my knight in shining Armani. 

Universe are you sending me a sign?