Feng Shui for Dummies

The human race is inherently prone to seeking guidance in utterly intangible, scientifically unprovable institutions. We have religion, astrology, global warming, palmistry and Richmond Footy Club.

My particular vice is Feng Shui. I don’t particularly believe in Chi or Flying Stars or Lucky Numbers, but something about putting random shit in semi-random positions in my house makes me feel good.

I have a pair of miniature Fu dogs at my front door warding off negative energy.  Somewhat conversely, they don’t try to keep me out when I come home fuming after a crappy day looking to choke something and throw furniture at passing vehicles. I guess they’re fine with MY negative energy. Although when the body corporate gardener comes around once a fortnight he always topples them over with his leaf blower. Clearly kilowatts trumps Chi every time.

Then there’s my Three Legged Toad friend. He sits facing into my house with a coin in his mouth, bringing in wealth. He seems to be doing his job because I’m still employed, there’s food in my belly and as I type I’m looking at a pair of black boots I bought last weekend which are entirely unnecessary considering I already own three pairs. There’s no Mustang Fastback in the garage yet, but I reckon Toad Man is working on it.

My indoor water feature is supposedly doing something to my Chi, but I’m unclear as to what. Mainly it makes me want to pee. And when my cats drink all the water and leave the pump running dry, it makes grinding noises that’ll make your fillings rattle.

My bedroom is devoid of mirrors because apparently this is bad for your relationship. Also I have no desire to see what I look like at 6.15am on a Tuesday. Neither does anyone else apparently, seeing as I’ve been one of Beyonce’s heralded single ladeez for well over two years. To this end, I have a statue of a cutesy pair of lovers in the ‘relationship’ sector of my home. Well it should be in the relationship sector, but I’m not entirely sure where that is so it’s just on the hall table with my keys. One day it fell off its table and the chick’s head fell off and skittered across the floor, amputating half her boyfriend’s face in the process.  I glued it back on, but I’m sure it portends something ominous. Look out boys, headless Inga’s coming to rip your faces off.

Then there’s all this jargon about keeping your house uncluttered and letting in fresh air, which has been second nature to me since I was old enough to pick up a vacuum cleaner. I’m terminally terrified of accumulating crap, to the point where I don’t let people buy me birthday presents anymore, unless they’re edible, alcoholic, or have been specifically requested in writing and signed in triplicate.

Now who wants me to read their tea leaves?