Published in On Our Selection News June 5, 2014

There’s a reason people say that you can’t go home again.

After four years of having another residential address, I am living back under my parents’ roof, and I must say that the experience has been challenging. I’m not just talking about the looks you get when you decide that a batch of black bean brownies is an acceptable choice for dinner (because you can eat it straight from the baking dish and then have the leftovers the next night, obviously). I’m talking about things that never used to be a big deal becoming a point of furious contention.

The simple placement of a toothbrush can be a declaration of opposition, the location of couch pillows an expression of dominance. Previously meaningless household items become weapons in a play for power. Currently, there’s a silent war raging between my father and I. As with many wars, the conflict stemmed from claims on resources, and this particular resourse is more valuable than gold and more useful than oil – bananas. They are located in no man’s land – the fridge – meaning anyone can make claim to their riches. When they are plentiful (after our beloved fruit man comes to town) there is peace – smoothies are blended and lunchboxes are filled and there is harmony in the region. However when the resource dwindles, things turn ugly and the situation becomes hostile. While going to the shops to buy more may be an option, neither party wants to lose face – no one wants to be seen giving in to terrorist demands. And so, bananas are smuggled into unchartered territory (behind the butter, out of the line of sight) and smuggled into secret stashes (inside an esky). In the interest of keeping relations diplomatic the issue is not mentioned, however when the resource is totally depleted, famine is avoided by striking a truce with joint funding initiatives. Eventually, we simply started ordering more bananas, and an armistice has been in place, securing peace.

But now, the war has escalated on the most controversial of issues – the placement of the kitchen bin. As a flag-waving freedom fighter, I believe it should be in a corner. My father’s fascist views involve placing the bin against cupboard doors. This means the lid bangs on the doors when he’s disposing of rubbish, loudly proclaiming to the entire house that he’s “taking out the trash” – which I can only assume is some kind of fear-inducing propaganda. My sister and mother carry on with their lives oblivious to the carnage, possibly because the degree of rotation of a bin actually makes no difference in their lives whatsoever or possibly because our attacks are so sophisticated. We engage in guerrilla tactics to undermine our opponent, choosing opportune times to strike, usually under the cover of darkenss. If I wake in the middle of the night, I will strike. By the time I’m up the next day, it has been shifted back into its oppressive position.

This kind of combat has been continuing for weeks, and there appears to be no end in sight without third party involvement. I suspect this may be on the cards, as my mother is making a roast, assumedly to facilitate peace talks as both parties will be at the table. Although this may backfire, as there could be tensions over the gravy jug.