“Hey Marty does your chair go up?” asks TIm from IT, who is 27 and lives with his Mum in Huntly.
“Narr mate I don’t think so,” replies Marty, also in IT but a different type, and also 27 but he lives with his girlfriend in Ironbark – if that is a real place.
“Mine used to,” said Natasha, a 28-year-old owner of one cat who lives in Castlemaine. She catches the train up most days but recently has been staying overnight closer to Bendigo. She’s not telling anyone about that just yet. You know. Fingers crossed but sometimes stuff just doesn’t work out.
“How do you mean?” asks Tim, looking under his chair for any signs of a level thing while swinging around, appearing like a slumped Weekend at Bernie’s type corpse on a lazy susan.
“I mean,” Natasha looks under her chair, “I think one of these does something.”
“Which one,” calls Marty, his head ducked between his legs like an ostrich playing hide and seek.
“This one?” asks Tim, and suddenly his chair tilts forward and he bounces like a bus full of pre-schoolers, with an ungraceful cry of “Yikees!” towards the floor.
“Not sure,” says Natasha, and she flicks at a lever that fires the backrest into her kidneys like an MMA fighter with fifteen years of experience in making you hurt.
She said, “Arrgh!”
Marty said, “What about…” then falls to the floor as the chair drops with the kind of thud one would expect from a tomato sauce bottle being dropped back into the fridge door – yeah I said fridge door. Tomato sauce lives in the fridge!
Tim said, while hunched with his forehead on the floor, “Are we getting those stand-up workbenches soon?”
Natasha said, “Yes,” then lay on the floor for a quick nap and recovery.