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Regular readers of this blog will recall that Crazy D has a somewhat nomadic lifestyle. Not only does his job require that he traipse the world, his living arrangements feed into that scenario. Have plastic bins; will travel. That’s Crazy D.

He has been living here with me and L’il Sis for almost two years. When I say ‘living’ I use the term in the broadest sense. His stuff lives here.He showers and does laundry here. He repairs his bikes here. He makes maps of places he’s going here…his room is a regular Central Command for his excursions. It’s almost like he comes home to plan his escape! He comes and goes. Back and forth to Toronto and now that he has a girlfriend, to her place. As he breezed in and out the other day, water bottle and knapsack in hand, he commented (with a certain degree of resignation tinged with an air of desperation), “I am a hobo!”

The kicker to all of this is that he has ‘annexed’ our neighbours’ house while they are away for six weeks. To make an honest man of him, they did offer the use of their house should we need it when Gill comes… or for me if I need to escape the bedlam that is our house. And we are in and out, watering plants, delivering mail, keeping a general eye out for them. (Even The Pig has helped, taking her duty as neighborhood bunny hunter seriously. A bunny hangs out on their front lawn or, more accurately, field of clover, and The Pig loves to torture it by yelling at the top of her lungs when she sees it.)

The other night, Crazy D was in my kitchen, assembling an armful of ingredients for a meal. “Looks like you’re cooking something special for dinner,” I noted.

“Yup…I’m cooking dinner for my friend Julie…at the neighbors’.”

And he did. He was certainly more than welcome to host his dinner here, but I guess, when you live with your mom, you do occasionally need privacy. Not for anything nefarious, just because…

When I saw him the following morning, he looked a little worse for wear. “We got a bit boozy last night,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Well, at least all you had to do was crawl across the street,” I noted, ever the understanding mother. “I hope you tidied up after your meal,” I worried, not wanting to abuse their hospitality.

“Of course, Mom. I may live like a hobo but I don’t act like one! I wasn’t raised by wolves.”

“Thanks for that! Well, I have to say, you have some pretty classy digs for a hobo. It’s not every homeless person who has access to four-bedroom homes in suburbia.”

He disappears from time to time, huge plastic bins under his arms, going I know not where. For all I know, he could have several other ‘squats’ around town. Odd…

Then I chatted with Gill and found out that she, too, could make her way around the world, pretty much squatting in friends’ empty places. This confirms what I read in the paper about the younger generation not placing a high priority on buying their own home. Why would they when they can live the good life with only a suitcase or large plastic bin to worry about? I’d be happy to do that too — although I doubt Mrs. Beeton or the canaries would take kindly to being stuffed in a bin. I may be at the stage in my life where I consider down-sizing. They are definitely not!

 

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