Tuesday, June 28, 2011

DSC_3721 [psp] - Rubbish PrimarilyLandlord annoyances.

Just been asked pointedly if I know where the bags for the recycling bin are (er, yes, because I was the one who brought them up from outside). Because I put stuff in the recycling bin when there wasn't a bag in there. Except the lid was on it, and there was other stuff in there, but clearly it's my fault his guest disrupted his system.

And then he asked me if I enjoyed the meal the other night. Blank face ensues. Oh, you mean the leftovers? The spoonful of bits of burnt garlic and the fillet of miscellaneous, very deceased fish (I saw the Morrisson's Value packet, so don't pretend you know) no wider than my thumb and about as long, so basically a single fish finger sans breadcrumbs. That one? The one I already thanked you for? And which was conspicuously not a sumptuous repast? Although what you left for the other flatmate apparently was? I have got the right one, haven't I?

Well, if we're doing by-the-ways, did you see I'd added those pictures [you forced me into taking*]? Yes, those. Oh, I see, now you suddenly lose interest in talking to me. You "don't mind". What does that even mean in this context? You treat me as a free event photographer, and can't even thank me for that? You've suggested I'm being paid in hospitality, in my own home [which I pay you, profitably, for], often with things I provide, and yet at every stage I get half the amount you dole out to anyone else, the charred tag-ends, because I'm just make-weight, making up the numbers, just there to document from the outside and keep quiet? What, you think equality would distract me from the pro-bono work? You expect me to bugger off entirely for half the day when it's one of the many gatherings you throw at which you don't need my services, make comments about the way I never have anyone round, yet when I do you decide that now is a really great time to need help to set the mousetraps, break bits of the kitchen to show how badly made it is, turn the oven off to save energy and scour that baking dish (by the way, it was non-stick and it's still not clean)? That or come in and sit on people.

* Yes, I know they're not very good, but you expect perfect rendition in candlelight without anything so disruptive as a flash, of people who treat me with patronising disdain and so who generally don't display their best side in front of my camera, and you sulk when the edited results aren't on Facebook by the time you're going to bed?

Well, screw you**. Except it's probably your expectation that I would that's made you like this.

** Except I do need somewhere to live, and the other guy's nice, and house-hunting is hell even when you have proof of a fixed and significant income.

Ho hum.


Tell him to shove his room - there must be any number of potential alternatives for one such as yourself - well-mannered, erudite, witty, considerate and I've no doubt scrupulously clean and tidy. He should be paying you to live there.
Ah, but how does one demonstrate those various traits in the traditional five minutes staring at a small, ill-furnished room?

Well-mannered easily, but erudite and witty? It's hard to drop bon mots about that socket hanging out of the wall.

Which is one way of saying he told me to shove the room (by a sheet of white A4 wrapped round my bedroom door handle; I didn't see him for days afterwards) and househunting hasn't really been going well, what with the whole imploded life thing meaning I'm on housing benefit, which handily means I can get any room below the 30th percentile, assuming of course any of them take people on housing benefit (I'll leave you to guess that likelihood), and which uses data from pre-The Collapse, so before supply dried up because no one's building anything and demand surged because no one's buying anything because there are no new mortgages, so rents are some distance from what the government expects to cover (even the local borough admit there's not much hope and suggest either finding a baby or sleeping on a friend's floor [and if I do that I cease to be their responsibility]).

Suddenly the precariousness of life is fairly apparent, which only makes getting politely declined by smug young things—too young to have learnt it could happen to them—even more fun. That being rejected for being "too mature", having one landlord greet me disappointedly with "you're white" while getting accepted by one household only to be barred by their letting agent because it meant more paperwork.

L'enfer, c'est les autres.

So I'm left wondering what the hell to do given the only thing on Gumtree in budget is actually just up the road from me, and seeks a third female for a room with one single bed.

Remind me next time doom comes to get the hell out of the country while I still can.
Cross-dressing in order to secure a roof over one's head does seem a bit of a stretch. Sorry to hear of this miserable turn of events.

Is a grovelling return to parents a possibility? I did it for a while - allowed me to lick my wounds and emerge back into the world raring to go again a few months (well, eighteen or so) later.

Whatever ends up happening, I hope it's not too undignified. If you feel like a change of scenery, my offer to show you around my delightful world heritage city remains open.
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