I don't deny that every once in a while, one's affections might be suspect. But to be replaced by a simian? And that too in one's own house? True, my wife and I had been sniping - moving home isn't the best medicine for keeping a relationship - but opening the door to one's bedroom to find the bed occupied by a monkey ripping open a packet of chips and appearing to enjoy every privilege of a cushy life was a bit beyond the pale. I'll admit, he didn't stay long, clearly finding the behaviour of the head of the household forbidding and vanishing with a bag of peanuts that he seemed to prefer over the chips he'd raided.
My wife shrieked, whether because she'd spotted the interloper or her husband being unclear, and the poor monkey made a dash at this rude infringement. I noticed my wife didn't bother with changing the sheets though, almost as if monkeys lounging in bed were part of the household. Or maybe the house residents had recently had enough practice tackling beastly creatures not to make much of their presence. Having forsaken condo living for the as yet dubious pleasures of a bungalow, we'd found the house invaded by what the cook and my wife insisted was "a snake" though it might as well have been a gecko or a lizard, the way they described it. Pigeons roosted in the balconies. Slithery things, well, slithered in. Strays barked up a storm at our poor pet.
The perils of a house move weren't limited to just invasions by exotic terrestrial beings. Furniture deliveries came in the middle of the night. Water taps coughed suspiciously and gurgitated streams of rust. Power played hide and seek, gadgets whirred on and off on their own, the microwave went on strike, and just when we thought we'd finished settling a room, it appeared mysteriously undone. Gardeners, guards and other temps showed up but the domestic staff opted for truancy, knowing that the early days of settling down in a new home were when tempers and mistresses were at their worst. Lost clothes were blamed on the primates.
The keys to the gate were misplaced. The main door wouldn't open anyway. The front door had three obstinate locks that we couldn't fathom the function of. We'd step out for a run to the market, or to take the dog for a walk, to find the house mysteriously bolted from within. The old apartment seemed achingly familiar but out of grasp. Had we burned our bridges? Could we, like the monkey, turn tail and flee back?
Then the cook served up a meal of pasta and salad with an Italian dressing that he'd rediscovered. My son opened a bottle of scotch that had been reserved for a special occasion. The postman came knocking with the first letter at the new address - a cheque - that spoke of changed fortunes. A kindly soul thought to send around flowers. Friends arrived carrying gifts of food and exclamations of neighbourly affection. The community takeaways turned out to be better than in our previous residence. We found ourselves putting down tentative roots.
We've missed the monkeys lately - maybe they don't like what's in our fridge, which these days seems to consist almost entirely of cheese and Marmite - for they haven't returned, though we can see them in the trees. Unseasonal jacarandas are flowering outside the window. The milkman and newspaper vendor have started deliveries. The birds are cooing in the balcony. It feels like home, already.
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