(except it won't rhyme)
Public holiday tomorrow and since my cultural clock is still set to Greenwich, I'd forgotten about it until today (joy unbounded!). It brings in its merry wake:
Lie-in possibilities of the kind described by others (with lesser gifts of concentration) as hibernation.
No reason for work to ring this weekend (touch wood, particle board and skull).
I have a lead on a source of oven cleaner/ammonia.
New flatmates have now been in residence for almost a week and so far no one appears to have plans to inflict The Death Of Ten Thousand Paper Cuts, or The Hideous Torture Of Thirty-two Late-Night Flushes on anyone else. Too early to tell about The Horror Of The Mysterious Bowl Of Green Fur That Creeps At The Back Of The Fridge, but I am strong.
I have managed to not accidentally lock anyone in the flat thereby causing them to miss work and disturbing the delicate harmony of domestic life.
One of them has a student who has kicked things off a treat by giving her enormous quantities (ten of those posh 150g Swiss tablets) of chocolate.
They showed no sign of fear and dread when I revealed the Awful Truth Of The Late Evening Vocal Effects Produced Through The Living Room Wall By The Woman Next Door (in keeping with tradition, did so only after they had paid rent).
2 comments:
You're doing a lot better than me. Ludovico, my wannabe flatmate, has been texting asking 'if I like Italian food', to tempt me into giving my spare room to him, as if the thought of my consuming carbohydrate in vast quanities is a good reason for him to move in. Things could be a lot worse, I suppose. I too have awful truths about my flat, especially my new upstairs neighbours' habit of walking their Scottie dog, Alfie, at midnight. The banging of doors which is involved is driving me wild with fury.
Hmmm... the food for room ploy is clearly widespread. During my quest, I was offered Irish stew by a youthful Jamie Oliver-a-like.
Truly sorry for the dog-walking. Pitter-patter of claws plus door banging is something that would send me into a rage as well.
I have another awful truth connected with the Sunday-morning habits of the builders who I thought had long since gone, but reared their ugly power drills last weekend. But this is in no way as terrifying as next-door neighbour lady's awesome-in-the-Elizabethan-sense vocal skills.
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