In 1999, as the world prepared to bid farewell to the ’90s, my life was also on the verge of a significant transition. My university friends were graduating, cutting their hair, and stepping into the adult world of corporate attire. Meanwhile, I was still clinging to my student life, with one year left to complete my degree. My supervisor was skeptical about my progress, and my girlfriend had left for an exchange program in Bristol, leaving me with the lease of an old three-bedroom house opposite the university.
The house, though basic and devoid of modern comforts like heating or cooling, was a dream for any student. It was a place where vinyl op-shop jackets hung in the hallway, stolen street signs adorned the living room, and the front veranda was a hub for reading, people-watching, and enjoying music with friends. I had often gazed at this house from the roadside, imagining the freedoms it represented.
The Allure of Share Housing
At 21, with my name on the lease, I believed finding housemates would be a breeze. The house’s proximity to campus made it an ideal spot for students who could roll out of bed and head to class without even needing shoes. Share housing had always seemed liberating to me—a perfect blend of hygiene and partying with a mix of eclectic housemates.
Word about the available rooms spread quickly. I pinned posters on campus noticeboards and soon found Mick, a commerce student with a broad smile, and Sarah, a science student from the country. However, Sarah left within two weeks, missing her friends at college. Through a friend, we found Will, a history student and DJ, to fill the vacancy.
The Descent into Chaos
Initially, everything seemed to be going well. Will brought a positive vibe to the house, gifting me the new PJ Harvey album and embracing Mick’s protein supplement habits. However, it wasn’t long before I noticed a change. Mick’s bucket bong, a homemade device that created a powerful effect, became a permanent fixture in the living room. Mick’s friend Gary, who initially crashed on our couch, never left. He spent his gap year in our living room, joining Mick and Will in their morning ritual of bucket bongs.
Our once idyllic student house transformed into a hangout for bodybuilding stoners. The living room filled with water-filled buckets, and the kitchen overflowed with protein powders. Paranoia set in, and everyone kept a private stash of toilet paper in their rooms. The situation was spiraling out of control.
The Breaking Point
My ex-girlfriend returned from Bristol and took pity on my predicament. I found refuge in her small houseshare down the road, where I spent countless hours trying to complete my studies. Despite the chaos, I managed to meet my deadlines, much to the surprise of my supervisor.
Ultimately, I had no choice but to give up the lease. None of my housemates wanted the responsibility, so the house disbanded. I spent the end of 1999 cleaning out the house, hoping to recover enough of the bond to celebrate New Year’s in Sydney.
“At the foot of the Harbour Bridge, I welcomed the new millennium surrounded by a million cheerful faces, imagining the possibilities ahead.”
Reflections and New Beginnings
Two weeks later, I cut my hair and donned a tie, ready to embrace the adult world I had once resisted. The experience taught me valuable lessons about responsibility and the unpredictable nature of share housing.
As I look back, that year marked a significant turning point in my life. It was a time of chaos and growth, leading me to the person I am today. The bucket-filled nightmare of my dream share house was a chapter I won’t soon forget.
Damien Nowicki is The Age’s deputy opinion editor.
