Bogan Vista

I am currently babysitting a house while its owners are skylarking around the countryside. Babysitting a house is much more pleasurable than babysitting an actual baby, given that this place has yet to poo its nappy twenty times a day, scream for hours at nothing in particular and the plants don’t vomit water onto my shoulder after feeding time. Well, so far so good anyway.

The house has a beautiful deck out the back that I completely intended on using as a backdrop for my plethora of reading material that I have insisted on reading over the Christmas break. Which would all be well and good if the neighbours over the back fence weren’t complete bogans who, I have decided, must be avoided at all costs. Why is it that bogans can’t seem to do anything quietly?

I don’t like the fact that bogans exist at all let alone having to converse with them about bogan subject matter that are of no consequence to me and my books. If I wanted to talk I wouldn’t be reading a book, would I? I wish they would take their bogan music and bogan motorbikes and general bogan hysteria and buzz off.

Thus, I am currently sitting at the gorgeous teak (or some other type of glamourous wood) dining room table, which sits just moments away from the alluring, inaccessible back deck, with its mountainous views, if you can overlook the more immediate bogan-inspired vista. Fortunately there is a lovely cool breeze coming off the mountains which sates my desire to be outside communing which nature.