Living in this tiny, tiny city, subject to the restrictive timetables of our draconian shopping hours, one can quickly tire of shuffling between one day and the next of our weekly work-bbq-sleep agenda. Betwixt the summer evenings pushing electrons around the Internet, the Saturdays stumbling down the wobbly slope from sobriety to drunken forgetfulness, and the Sundays of squinting, yawning recovery, the weeks can all too easily blur into hazy months, even years.

What is a young, middle classed suburbanite to do? How can one escape this war of attrition with yuppie indulgence - this taking-for-granted of lifestyle?

My answer came in the acquisition of one Director Bob. Bob, Bob, wonderful Bob! Arriving on the doorstep one day with a toothbrush, two packing boxes full of DVDs, and a skull-full of movie trivia, his smiling bearded visage was the blessed promise of relief from this tedious routine. Don't worry, it seems to say, chuckling slightly, I'll help you transform your life, help you out of this gutter you've fallen into! Just let me in, and give me Coke.

We knew time was limited, and that nothing we could do would stave off the feeling of a wasted opportunity when he'd gone. As if some wealthy proprietor said 'take what you want from my electronics/gormet cuisine/computer game shop! As much as you can fit into this here little basket!' and left you with your gross indecision... where do you begin? How do you begin?

The Sopranos. That is, in fact, about where it started and ended. One of the finest television series ever made, we spent those halcyon days exploring the complex relationships between that crazy family, helping Tony work through his problems, and mourning the diminished social significance the Mafia now commands. Psychology and cunnilingus brought us to this! we'd quip; And proctologists? I don't even let anyone wave their finger in my FACE! Oh Anthony Soprano, you whacky funster...

We spent weeks cramming in Sopranos episodes, between pizzas, potato salad and exotic soirées. And movie scripts were drafted, computer games played, jokes shared, anecdotes told, and Simpsons were quoted. For three full weeks Director Rob was the pale moon that shifted the tidal flows of our lives, gently changed our patterns for the better.

And just like that... he was gone. From one day comfortably ensuring our lounge room did not lay in a wasteful state of unuse to a sudden vacuum where his quiet form once wandered, he left no trace but a small thank-you cartoon on the kitchen desk, and three series of Sopranos. The gift of his presence will always be remembered, but I wonder how long until it was as if he'd never come?

It's whispered that if you listen really hard, you can still hear the explosive vomiting from the back toilet; a Director Bob filling the house with mighty ghostly retchings... possibly rupturing internal ghostly blood vessels.