The House Sitting Blues

For almost six months, Dean and I have been house sitting in and around the Sunshine Coast, close to Caloundra (where our new home is being built) and although this has been a godsend, and may even seem adventurous, minding someone else’s house does have its drawbacks.  Some can lead to occasions of hilarity like the time we had a carpet snake enter the house and I had a full-scale nuclear meltdown.  But there have also been many occasions of utmost frustration.  

In order to immortalise these moments of exasperation, I’ve compiled the following to demonstrate exactly what house sitting is not.  


It’s not my house I tell myself,
Time and time again.
Not my busted guttering,
That wakes me during rain.

It’s not my place to move a thing,
To give a room feng shui.
I tell myself “Just leave it there”
What more can I say?

It’s not my oven barely working,
Roasting Sunday’s dinner.
If I’d have packed my Weber Q,
I’d be on a winner.

It’s not my jazzy oven mitt,
Protecting me from burns.
Not my hanging basket there,
Full of fancy ferns.

– ⋅ o ♥ o ⋅ –

It’s not my rusty old egg flip,
Neglected in the drawer.
Not my stove providing me,
A steak that’s still quite raw.

It’s not my shiny two door fridge,
Storing all my food.
Not my chickens laying eggs.
No, they are not my brood.

It’s not my shiny new front-loader,
Washing all my clothes.
Stealing socks and breaking buttons,
You know how it goes.

They’re not my photos, not my paintings,
Not my cooking pot.
These are not my ‘anything’,
I tell myself a lot.

– ⋅ o ♥ o ⋅ –

It’s not my lavish fancy quilt,
Festooned upon the bed.
And keeps the carpet warm at night,
When I lay down my head.

They’re not my pot plants getting water,
Morning, noon, or night.
Nor my internet wifi,
That’s sometimes not quite right.

It’s not my orange worn out mat,
That covers busted tile.
Hiding broken worn out bits,
– That really makes me smile.

It’s not my lounge or chair or sofa,
On which I place my butt.
With busted springs and lumpy bits,
That make me utter “What?”

– ⋅ o ♥ o ⋅ –

It’s not my ceiling fan at night,
That rattles, shakes, and squeaks,
Not my bed on which I lay,
That moans and groans and creaks.

It’s not my dog I feed each night,
And snuggle on the couch.
They are my shoes he chews to bits,
And makes of me a grouch.

It’s not my kitchen second drawer,
That makes me say “Oh man –
How I wish I had an implement,
To open up a can!”

That’s not my broken insect screen,
Encouraging a mouse.
Yep . . .

Time and time again I say,

. . . This is not my house.


Of course, all of this is said ‘tongue in cheek’ – Or is it?

4 Comments

  1. They’re not my photos, not my paintings,
    Not my cooking pot.
    These are not my ‘anything’,
    I tell myself a lot.

    Well that kind of says it all, doesn’t it… Not exactly like living in a hotel room for three weeks, eh? I don’t know how you have managed ever to feel at home. Or have you? I suppose some places are better than others. Btw, what’s a carpet snake?

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