The Tech-Head. Raving ‘til dawn, this uni student/part time wannabe producer living in the unit above doesn’t turn down for no one. You better get used to those 808’s flickering in the AM and sub drops that shake the pictures off your walls.
Suburban Nationalist. He voted for Pauline, has an Australian flag flying in the front yard and BBQ’s steak on Sundays. Friday night rum-fuelled ACDC sing-a-longs with mates are actually one of the nicer intricacies of his nature. Remarkably adept vocabulary of swear words. Not afraid to use them on passers-by who gaze too long at his Commodore.
Yuppie Couple. Their dog shits on your lawn daily, it hurts your soul seeing them stride out of their front door in active wear while you’re dragging your drunken corpse to bed. You can hear them watching The Block every night.
Uni House. An aroma of drying vomit, darts and bong wafts into your nostrils from the backyard of the boys next door. Apparently, they had a few bands play at their house party this time, the police came and gave them another warning. Someone threw a bottle over your fence.
Barb. She’s widowed, so you’re one of the only men left in her life now. A war vet, she used to be a nurse but whips up a mean vanilla slice for you every now and again if you’re lucky. You check in every few days to have a chat, make sure she’s doing okay, help her tidy up the yard, and stay for a chinwag.