Flat Out

Venturing out of her suburban house and into an inner-city apartment block yields excruciating results for Terri Psiakis.

I've only ever lived in a house. Which isn't to brag, for those of you reading this from inside your cardboard box – although good on you for scoring one that's got wi-fi.

I've lived in my family home, a share house with mates and a house containing a man with whom I now share pending nuptials. Which sounds like some kind of disease, but don't worry: we're on antibiotics. But when a work opportunity arose that involved me spending a week on my own in a little flat in an apartment building interstate I was looking forward to vive-ing la difference. And for those of you thinking "You can't just add 'ing' to a French word to make it an active verb" - go conjugate yourself, derriere-holes.

My preconceptions about apartment-dwelling were based on what I'd seen on The Secret Life Of Us. I assumed I'd become best mates with the people in the apartment opposite and naturally the week would involve sunset rooftop parties. So you can understand my shock when the women in the apartment opposite stared darkly without replying whenever I said hello (the indignity!) and the only rooftop party I discovered involved a lone 40-something male in a banana lounge clutching a suburban-and-coke in one hand and a copy of Penthouse Black Label in the other (the fear!)

My struggle with apartment life didn't stop there. The smell of marijuana wafted through the stairwell at all hours but it was impossible to tell which apartment it was coming from, thereby preventing me from knocking at the door with a well-timed packet of Tim Tams and an invitation to a rooftop party. The chilled-out vibe of my late-night glass of wine on the couch was violated by a man who nonchalantly emerged onto his balcony across the way to release the winged insect he'd caught inside. Which wouldn't have been the slightest bit offensive had this man not been stark raving nude at the time.

But the highlight was the flat next door. It offered the sound of rhythmic grunting, pounding and what I assumed were bedsprings in the early hours of every morning to the extent that I wondered how the occupants were able to walk afterwards. And on the final day of my stay when I came face-to-face with them I couldn't resist bringing it up.

They were coming out of their apartment as I was about to enter mine. Mutual hellos were exchanged (finally!) and then I dropped it: "You two sound busy in the morning." Step aside, wits of the world. Psiakis is in town.

He looked at her, confused, and then she started laughing: "She can hear the bag!" He finally registered and they both cracked up while I stood there wondering who the bag was. Now speechless with laughter she pushed their door open and motioned for me to look inside. The kitchen and dining areas of our apartments were identical except for the fact that where mine had a huge table and chairs, theirs had a small table and chairs. And – I kid you not – a punching bag hanging from the ceiling.

The grunting, the pounding, the "bedsprings" which I realized were the chain links that suspended the bag. I don't mind telling you I've never been more embarrassed in my life. And I once voted Democrats. I apologized for my gaffe, they continued clutching at each other in hysterics and for as long as they dine off their story about the dickhead next door I'll continue to wonder: "Who the hell hangs a punching bag in their dining room?" Bloody apartment-dwellers.

- Terri Psiakis