Saturday, July 16, 2011

Oh.

So, I've been living in a squat for the past 6 months. And now I guess I don't anymore.

At about 11:30pm last night we got a visit from the cops. We were held in the kitchen as they searched the house, telling us we'd probably be charged with trespass. Then they found a bunch of stuff in my housemate's room and shit got serious.

He had one foot in the front door, my other housemate motioned to him to run, and he did. Even in slippers he managed to lose the cop in pursuit, who came back to the house fuming and told us all we were now in even deeper shit as we couldn't possibly have been unaware of what our olympic sprinter had been up to.

So while our guests radioed for backup and a sniffer dog we were searched, bored to tears making small talk with a (friendly enough) junior officer and intermittently pressed for information by his douchey superior. Then we were cordially informed that we had to fuck off by 4pm today.

My housemates have been through similar things to this before (less eventful in some cases, and far more in others), but I haven't. It's kind of awkward, but I can't say I feel that strongly about it, perhaps because I'm mostly ignorant of any implications, or perhaps because compared to my sprinting housemate I have jack all worries.

My essentials are the back of my mate's car right now, and we've emailed the relevant government department who administers that house, which of course won't be open until Monday, to negotiate our continued inhabitation in whatever form.

This is weird.