As much as I love my flat to bits (and love it I do) I have started to notice telltale signs that the place is not called Edward House for any reason other than it was created in the era of Mrs Simpson’s scandal and unlike the king’s mistress, hasn’t had a good seeing to since before the abdication.
A mate of mine took over flat 1 (after the colossal chav with warrant cops chasing him finally upped anchor) and as he’s a painter and decorator I asked him to cast his critical eye over both flats. Turns out there’s a whole world of misery that I wasn’t aware of and we have only just started to get things in order.
First of all the lounge is not just cold but “bollocks brought back down with a chimney sweep’s brush” cold. I left the oil based heater on all night a few weeks back and when I came down in the morning found that the lounge was still only lukewarm. Turns out whichever twat painted the window sill did it while the upper frame was an inch or so down so I now have misaligned windows that let the nice warm air bleed out and allow the Lemsip inducing frigid pestilence from
Regent Street to pour in. I have whapped masking tape over the cracks and am waiting for a hammer and a sharp scraper to free up the sill so we can manoeuvre it back into place.
Landlord reluctantly agreed to cough for the cost of draught excluders (got one that looks like the mutant offspring of a sheep and python, meant to be cute I think) and noted grumpily “they’re cold houses, they’re old houses. It’s meant to be part of their charm!”
I countered that if they are cold as brass monkeys BUT the windows are able to close then I’ll bite the bullet and put up with having a penis the size of an acorn and wearing duck down thermal undies in bed. BUT if there is no integrity on the very apparatus designed to stop the air from wafting off down the street then it’s his responsibility to fix it.
Came home a couple of days ago to find that the stairway door (that is at 90 degrees to my front door) had popped open and was completely obstructing the front door from opening. This happened once before but I simply kept opening and closing it until the petulant 2nd door vibrated out of alignment and I could get in. However, this time the sodding thing was more dogmatic than that little shit Wayne Rooney at a FIFA appeal hearing and despite making a racket I absolutely could not shift it.
After 5 minutes of swearing and banging there was a frantic pounding on the security door downstairs and I opened it to find a stylist from the hair salon I live above, wanting to know what the awful din was and why one of his customers had just nearly got brained by a painting that had vibrated off the wall while shampoo bottles were raining off the shelves.
I explained what was going on and he was sympathetic. Denoument came when the 17 year old, camp salon assistant suggested using a long screwdriver to reaching through the two inch gap and realign the door…which worked. Then had to spend 5 minutes hovering up the paint chips that had snowed onto the hallway floor under my enthusiastic and furious attempts to gain lawful entry.
I applied for a job a couple of weeks ago and last Monday took a trip down to the depot to find out why they hadn’t contacted me the previous Friday as they’d promised. The bloke at the front office rang upstairs and then told me with a beaming smile that I had passed the interview and it was now up to personnel who had my file. He wished me well and said I’d hear by the following Friday. What a nice chap!
Following Friday and at I got an email from their recruitment department in
Sheffield requesting my ID documents AGAIN as they’d lost them. Wording of the email was still relatively ambiguous but said they couldn’t offer work until they had proof I wasn’t the reincarnation of Osama Bin Laden and, as they’d CC’d the bloke who interviewed me into the email, I read his bits and it asked him to send my stuff Special Delivery as soon as he got them.
My missus is coming back. Well, to Italy anyway but it’s a 2 hour time difference as opposed to a 6 hour one and it means I can use Easyjet to go and see her as opposed to British “cunting” Airways. BA royally fucked me over on a flight back from Mexico in August and gave me 15,000 airmiles as compensation (which I had to argue with some pre-menstrual cow to get) which I have now given to Michelle to get a single ticket from Mexico City to Milan Linate. Miss her more than ever now so it will be nice to be able to Skype while eating the same meal and not while she’s in pyjamas and I’m fully clothed.
I found out last night what a spaghetti lesbian is. It’s twice as pervy as I imagined albeit very erotic. Someone who is “straight until wet” with the slightly less “heart attack your granny” metaphor being “straight until heated up”.
This refers to women who are prim and proper, immaculately turned out and wear make up that is correctly applied but go sexually berserk with other females (despite being mainly straight) while drunk, watching porn, in a threesome or watching porn while drunk and having a threesome.
Anyone know what the male equivalent is called?