I got home yesterday evening from work to find the Sloth in a highly unusual and unexpected froth of excitement. After a while I worked out that he was actually saying book of the tarpon. Okay. Steady on. Sounded seedy, turns out just to be unfamiliar.
Know what a Tarpon is? Not me, either.
Turns out it has been lurking in the local charity shop by the book shelves and is now full of it.
The Book of The Tarpon for 50 pence. Hardback, no dustjacket. Good condition. Covers are inevitably worn particularly at top and bottom of spine. Paste down image on cover very good. Top edge is gilt, pages are otherwise uncut. A previous owner has written his name on the inside front cover. The hinges are slighty loose. Pages are inevitably age-coloured but there is very little foxing inside. It is the 1911 first edition and dealers are asking several hundred US dollars for copies in very similar condition.
Jammy bastard.
A tarpon is a fish, btw.
Showing posts with label a refraction of domestic bliss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a refraction of domestic bliss. Show all posts
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Thursday, 22 November 2007
Exhaustion is my new best friend
The house is a tip. This is all too often the case but right now it is a tip on a scale that might under different circumstances be described as heroic. I get up, I write, I go to work, I come home, I write. That's it. But I'm galloping to the tape. Then begins the arduous task of setting everything to rights: the house, the laundry, the garden, Christmas, and last, but not least a first draft manuscript.
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Local wild life
The cat has turned out to be a good mouser. Perhaps a local farm would be interested in him. I know cats catch things. I know they tend to catch things for the sake of it and have a nasty habit of not killing their catch quickly or bothering to eat what they catch when it eventually dies.
I object to the cat because he is mean spirited, which is mean spirited given the grim start he had in life. I can't help it, I can't like him.
Yet I accept him catching pigeons and littering the garden with their feathers, setting up camp on the neighbor's garden shed right above the nesting box they so kindly attached to it.
What I find difficult is coming downstairs and treading in entrails that are strewn across the carpet. I thought I had developed the knack of intercepting him as he brings these creatures in; I've succeeded numerous times in liberating field mice and birds he's brought home.
I failed last night; he came in with a mouse clamped between his jaws. I was at the far side of the room and he knew what I would attempt so he backed out through the cat flap. Bye bye mouse. I just wish you hadn't squealed so pitifully on the way out.
Now the nasty little rat faced interloper is curled up on My Bed, looking like butter wouldn't melt. Want a cat? Excellent mouser. Free to Good Home. Must be prepared to collect. [Neutered male, vaccinated.] Even his cute girlfriend can't save him. And if her arse gets any bigger she won't be fitting throught the catflap.
As if that wasn't enough we're heading for an almighty row over things. It is bad enough that he drinks himself legless every night. One night this week I came home to find the house wide open and the offspring fending for herself. He hasn't cooked her a proper evening meal all week, she hasn't had any help with her homework. He regards his parental responsibilities as being met when he escorts her from the gate back to the house in the afternoon.
Once he's settled her in front of the television with a microwaved meal on the table in front of her he is at liberty to return to his Ricard or his vodka, fags and book outside. I suspect that they don't exchange a word from one hour to the next, then he shuffles her off to bed without a wash and without brushing her teeth.
I suppose I would be castigated for giving up my job, flinging him out and throwing myself on the mercy of the state, when obviously this current arrangement of us being married and working creates a so much superior environment in which to raise a child.
I'm depressed and words are not flowing, or at least not useful ones. I'm going have to work myself up into a temper and get out of this.
I object to the cat because he is mean spirited, which is mean spirited given the grim start he had in life. I can't help it, I can't like him.
Yet I accept him catching pigeons and littering the garden with their feathers, setting up camp on the neighbor's garden shed right above the nesting box they so kindly attached to it.
What I find difficult is coming downstairs and treading in entrails that are strewn across the carpet. I thought I had developed the knack of intercepting him as he brings these creatures in; I've succeeded numerous times in liberating field mice and birds he's brought home.
I failed last night; he came in with a mouse clamped between his jaws. I was at the far side of the room and he knew what I would attempt so he backed out through the cat flap. Bye bye mouse. I just wish you hadn't squealed so pitifully on the way out.
Now the nasty little rat faced interloper is curled up on My Bed, looking like butter wouldn't melt. Want a cat? Excellent mouser. Free to Good Home. Must be prepared to collect. [Neutered male, vaccinated.] Even his cute girlfriend can't save him. And if her arse gets any bigger she won't be fitting throught the catflap.
As if that wasn't enough we're heading for an almighty row over things. It is bad enough that he drinks himself legless every night. One night this week I came home to find the house wide open and the offspring fending for herself. He hasn't cooked her a proper evening meal all week, she hasn't had any help with her homework. He regards his parental responsibilities as being met when he escorts her from the gate back to the house in the afternoon.
Once he's settled her in front of the television with a microwaved meal on the table in front of her he is at liberty to return to his Ricard or his vodka, fags and book outside. I suspect that they don't exchange a word from one hour to the next, then he shuffles her off to bed without a wash and without brushing her teeth.
I suppose I would be castigated for giving up my job, flinging him out and throwing myself on the mercy of the state, when obviously this current arrangement of us being married and working creates a so much superior environment in which to raise a child.
I'm depressed and words are not flowing, or at least not useful ones. I'm going have to work myself up into a temper and get out of this.
Monday, 22 October 2007
Masochism special
I hate Christmas for a number of reasons and on many levels. Most of the reasons are connected with dismay at my situation and the hatred works at many levels of my being. That presumably is why every year, without exception, I put myself through something I've just begun this morning which is the task of putting the house in order so that the tree and the decorations can go up, the dining room can be dressed for the occasion and that we do the whole formal meal with every conceivable trimming thing. For the three of us. Never mind that I have no family with me, that I hate being here. That being the three of us locked for the 'festive' holiday in this danse macabre of Cluedo, Zulu, Mah Jongg and turkey.
Today I started gathering together and bagging up the accumulated detritus of this year now drawing to a close.
I picked up some cardboard boxes from the supermarket last Friday and I'm putting into them the things now best set to one side until the end of December. Soon it will be time to fetch down from the loft the cases of decorations to fish through them for those bits and pieces still presentable enough to be pressed into use again.
Oh, how I hate this.
Today I started gathering together and bagging up the accumulated detritus of this year now drawing to a close.
I picked up some cardboard boxes from the supermarket last Friday and I'm putting into them the things now best set to one side until the end of December. Soon it will be time to fetch down from the loft the cases of decorations to fish through them for those bits and pieces still presentable enough to be pressed into use again.
Oh, how I hate this.
Sunday, 21 October 2007
now here's a thought
He might strain himself. Chance would be a fine thing.
The green bin due to be filled, the garden carpeted with fallen leaves. Bright crisp winter's day, ground rather heavy under foot but other wise quite perfect. A few hardy (!) butterflies, red emperors, in the garden still, a job of work to be done, raking and gathering.
And he did help. Honest. He came along, heroically, at the eleventh hour and managed to fit a couple of handfuls of leaves in. Thank you. Hope you didn't hurt anything in the process.
Here's the thing though. For the second time this year I've found dog crap in our garden. We don't have a dog. A charmless neighbor is allowing its mutt loose in our garden. When I find out who it is I'm flinging that dog crap back.
The green bin due to be filled, the garden carpeted with fallen leaves. Bright crisp winter's day, ground rather heavy under foot but other wise quite perfect. A few hardy (!) butterflies, red emperors, in the garden still, a job of work to be done, raking and gathering.
And he did help. Honest. He came along, heroically, at the eleventh hour and managed to fit a couple of handfuls of leaves in. Thank you. Hope you didn't hurt anything in the process.
Here's the thing though. For the second time this year I've found dog crap in our garden. We don't have a dog. A charmless neighbor is allowing its mutt loose in our garden. When I find out who it is I'm flinging that dog crap back.
Friday, 5 October 2007
Happy anniversary
It wasn't until I'd gone to bed both very tired and very hungry I remembered yesterday's significance. Granted not precisely a cause for celebration but there it is. We were married fourteen years ago yesterday.
Didn't see him until yesterday afternoon, then only briefly and cordially. Then got home at about 9:15 in the evening. He was relatively sober and ready to chat, the offspring already upstairs and in bed if not actually asleep.
What I wanted to do was get a meal inside me so that it had a chance to settle a bit before I turned in. What I would have said yes to was one (or probably both) of the beers he'd thoughtfully provided. Perhaps that was a token?
Don't know. He waffled on a bit, then a bit more, then a bit more still. I sat there getting more and more wound up, my stomach rumbling. When would he leave me in peace. He went out for a fag. I figured I had a couple of minutes more to endure. I waited, and waited, and waited.
Twenty minutes later I decided I was more tired than hungry and turned in.
Happy anniversary.
Didn't see him until yesterday afternoon, then only briefly and cordially. Then got home at about 9:15 in the evening. He was relatively sober and ready to chat, the offspring already upstairs and in bed if not actually asleep.
What I wanted to do was get a meal inside me so that it had a chance to settle a bit before I turned in. What I would have said yes to was one (or probably both) of the beers he'd thoughtfully provided. Perhaps that was a token?
Don't know. He waffled on a bit, then a bit more, then a bit more still. I sat there getting more and more wound up, my stomach rumbling. When would he leave me in peace. He went out for a fag. I figured I had a couple of minutes more to endure. I waited, and waited, and waited.
Twenty minutes later I decided I was more tired than hungry and turned in.
Happy anniversary.
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Lies, damned lies
There you go again. I'll tell you what hurts most, but I'll only be confirming what you've already worked out for yourself, won't I. Will it comfort you to know that I went to sleep last night with this on my mind?
I left for work at half past one in the afternoon. The garden, particularly the potted plants didn't need to be watered for the second time in the day until the evening. I didn't get back until after dark, when it was no longer possible to water the garden, except by guess work and with a lot of blundering about in the pitch black involved. It isn't a big garden but it is ours and we've invested a bit in the plants we've got growing in it. Some even have sentimental value - like the roses we've planted where we've buried the pets you shed so many tears over.
Remember? I got home at 9:30 last night. I noticed the wilting plants by the kitchen door and I asked you if they'd been watered. Perhaps you'd just done it after getting the offspring to bed; too dark now for me to see water lying about the pots afterall. I could only judge that they were still rather wilted from the sillouette. What did you say? "Yes, yes I watered this afternoon, well this evening."
I knelt down and felt the soil. That pot hadn't been watered since this morning.
Is the thing that hurts most the failure to bother with this simple domestic chore which I couldn't do? No.
Is the thing that hurts most the lie about it? No.
The thing that hurts most is that after almost15 years of marriage and so many protestations of love you can't even show me enough respect to come up with a plausible lie. I'm past expecting the balls to tell me the truth. But I do wish that you'd put a bit of effort into your lies; you're not putting any great effort into anything else.
Do you have any idea how much I hate you?
I left for work at half past one in the afternoon. The garden, particularly the potted plants didn't need to be watered for the second time in the day until the evening. I didn't get back until after dark, when it was no longer possible to water the garden, except by guess work and with a lot of blundering about in the pitch black involved. It isn't a big garden but it is ours and we've invested a bit in the plants we've got growing in it. Some even have sentimental value - like the roses we've planted where we've buried the pets you shed so many tears over.
Remember? I got home at 9:30 last night. I noticed the wilting plants by the kitchen door and I asked you if they'd been watered. Perhaps you'd just done it after getting the offspring to bed; too dark now for me to see water lying about the pots afterall. I could only judge that they were still rather wilted from the sillouette. What did you say? "Yes, yes I watered this afternoon, well this evening."
I knelt down and felt the soil. That pot hadn't been watered since this morning.
Is the thing that hurts most the failure to bother with this simple domestic chore which I couldn't do? No.
Is the thing that hurts most the lie about it? No.
The thing that hurts most is that after almost15 years of marriage and so many protestations of love you can't even show me enough respect to come up with a plausible lie. I'm past expecting the balls to tell me the truth. But I do wish that you'd put a bit of effort into your lies; you're not putting any great effort into anything else.
Do you have any idea how much I hate you?
Friday, 31 August 2007
What every silver lining has, of course
The Slug is back and now tucked up in bed. In the mean time I have ascertained that the NHS letter inviting him to have a blood test as part of a CHD Risk Assessment is in fact perfectly routine in men his age. Foiled again.
Things are looking up though!
For years upon years I've looked at The Slug and thought "Why won't you just drop dead of the coronory you're obviously going to have one day?"
Good news for modern woman. He's dragged himself to see the Quack. This is a bloke quietly sloping off to see the Doctor. Odd in itself.
And the darling quack has decided a bit of base line data's required. The documentation came through today. I left the letter unopened by the door, he came home while we were at the park, read it and left it open where I'd left it unopened, then went off to see a mate. Now I'd never dream of opening something addressed to him, but I'm not going to pass up the opportunity to have a gander at something to him on NHS letterhead.
I've had a chance to decipher some of the medico-gobble-de-gook. A CHD Risk Assessment is being undertaken. As part of this the following boxes have been ticked in the section under Biochemistry on the blood test form: Electrolytes, Liver and Lipids.
Pleeeeeeeese let the news be Bad.
Good news for modern woman. He's dragged himself to see the Quack. This is a bloke quietly sloping off to see the Doctor. Odd in itself.
And the darling quack has decided a bit of base line data's required. The documentation came through today. I left the letter unopened by the door, he came home while we were at the park, read it and left it open where I'd left it unopened, then went off to see a mate. Now I'd never dream of opening something addressed to him, but I'm not going to pass up the opportunity to have a gander at something to him on NHS letterhead.
I've had a chance to decipher some of the medico-gobble-de-gook. A CHD Risk Assessment is being undertaken. As part of this the following boxes have been ticked in the section under Biochemistry on the blood test form: Electrolytes, Liver and Lipids.
Pleeeeeeeese let the news be Bad.
Sunday, 26 August 2007
Not even funny
This morning I succeeded in kicking everyone else out of the house by 10:00 which is not bad for a Sunday and prepared myself for a day on MY OWN, without distractions, interruptions or other petty annoyances.
I went upstairs to gather together the last load and ... well I only intended to lie down for a couple of minutes but before I knew where I was the offspring was bounding upstairs to tell me all about the horrendous journey they'd found lying before them.
Fuck.
He picked up my work schedule for the next three weeks from the office yesterday and brought it home. Today was basically my last day to get ANYTHING extracurricular done between now and the middle of next month and it just vanished, like that!
And, this is my fourth day off the piss (I think; these days of sobriety are all blurring into one long mangled stretch of sobriety.) I was in a foul mood, stomped about doing a dozen things at once and making everybody else miserable so we could all be miserable together. Family togetherness of a sort.
I got a little ironing done before it became apparent that the offspring was going to hang on my shoulder in danger of receiving a serious burn until I stopped doing that and did something else to make everyone very upset. I went into the back garden and took some of my mood out on the forsythia which is now so hacked back, on one side at least, that it is almost under control. I got together some plastic buckets and started collecting the fallen, rotting fruit from the big fruit tree in the back garden which he insists is a green gage but which produces fruit that look very like the Victoria plums sold in the local supermarket.
What to know something really funny? I'm listening to Stand By Your Man right now. Bizarre.
I filled three buckets from underneath the tree and among the strawberry plants that are now throwing out yet more runners. Anyone who wants some, free to anyone who can collect, drop me a line.
The plums or whatever are very nice but the tree is about sixty feet tall and prolific and we get bored with them after a few weeks. The rest just rot. In lovely hot summers they provide foot for various bugs and butterflies and so forth - we had a couple of red admirals and a peacock this afternoon - which was bright and sunny, swooping about, driven crazy by the sickly sweet aroma of the rotting fruit. One of the red admirals settled on a clutch of over ripe fruit still hanging from one of the lower branches and drank ... and drank ... and drank. I could have reached out and touched it but I preferred just to watch and marvel at a work of perfection.
It cheered me up, we had Chinese for supper ... soy sauce, chillies, ginger and garlic with water chestnuts, bamboo slivers, spring onion and peppers. It all went so it can't have been too awful.
Now he's finally buggered off and I'm cramming this in ... it might be The Last Post (for three weeks, and I can forget a password in that time, believe me).
I went upstairs to gather together the last load and ... well I only intended to lie down for a couple of minutes but before I knew where I was the offspring was bounding upstairs to tell me all about the horrendous journey they'd found lying before them.
Fuck.
He picked up my work schedule for the next three weeks from the office yesterday and brought it home. Today was basically my last day to get ANYTHING extracurricular done between now and the middle of next month and it just vanished, like that!
And, this is my fourth day off the piss (I think; these days of sobriety are all blurring into one long mangled stretch of sobriety.) I was in a foul mood, stomped about doing a dozen things at once and making everybody else miserable so we could all be miserable together. Family togetherness of a sort.
I got a little ironing done before it became apparent that the offspring was going to hang on my shoulder in danger of receiving a serious burn until I stopped doing that and did something else to make everyone very upset. I went into the back garden and took some of my mood out on the forsythia which is now so hacked back, on one side at least, that it is almost under control. I got together some plastic buckets and started collecting the fallen, rotting fruit from the big fruit tree in the back garden which he insists is a green gage but which produces fruit that look very like the Victoria plums sold in the local supermarket.
What to know something really funny? I'm listening to Stand By Your Man right now. Bizarre.
I filled three buckets from underneath the tree and among the strawberry plants that are now throwing out yet more runners. Anyone who wants some, free to anyone who can collect, drop me a line.
The plums or whatever are very nice but the tree is about sixty feet tall and prolific and we get bored with them after a few weeks. The rest just rot. In lovely hot summers they provide foot for various bugs and butterflies and so forth - we had a couple of red admirals and a peacock this afternoon - which was bright and sunny, swooping about, driven crazy by the sickly sweet aroma of the rotting fruit. One of the red admirals settled on a clutch of over ripe fruit still hanging from one of the lower branches and drank ... and drank ... and drank. I could have reached out and touched it but I preferred just to watch and marvel at a work of perfection.
It cheered me up, we had Chinese for supper ... soy sauce, chillies, ginger and garlic with water chestnuts, bamboo slivers, spring onion and peppers. It all went so it can't have been too awful.
Now he's finally buggered off and I'm cramming this in ... it might be The Last Post (for three weeks, and I can forget a password in that time, believe me).
Friday, 24 August 2007
Suck it and see
He broke the vacuum cleaner and after weeks and weeks of dithering and procrastination got hold of the name of A Man Who Does Vacuum Cleaners. But only for money, not for fun.
This strange man came and collected the bits of our vacuum cleaner that required attention and left us a temporary replacement. This was about ten days ago, before The Dick Head discovered that he has less than £10 to get him through to next payday, which is now just under a fortnight away. So that's OK. Since this geezer with the very lived in face had no idea when the part might turn up from Dyson or whatever intermediary he acquires parts through we were not expecting a next day return or anything like that and, given the circumstances we're currently in, we didn't exactly set up a howl of complaint.
So there we were this evening, sitting down to chicken and rice and there was a knock on the door. The Man Who Does Vacuum Cleaners had done our vacuum cleaner and wanted his machine back ... and £25 too, thank you very much.
Yup.
How much are baked beans and where can I buy them in bulk?
This strange man came and collected the bits of our vacuum cleaner that required attention and left us a temporary replacement. This was about ten days ago, before The Dick Head discovered that he has less than £10 to get him through to next payday, which is now just under a fortnight away. So that's OK. Since this geezer with the very lived in face had no idea when the part might turn up from Dyson or whatever intermediary he acquires parts through we were not expecting a next day return or anything like that and, given the circumstances we're currently in, we didn't exactly set up a howl of complaint.
So there we were this evening, sitting down to chicken and rice and there was a knock on the door. The Man Who Does Vacuum Cleaners had done our vacuum cleaner and wanted his machine back ... and £25 too, thank you very much.
Yup.
How much are baked beans and where can I buy them in bulk?
Tuesday, 24 July 2007
Journey to the End of The Earth
No, but it will feel like it. A day away from the fringes. We're off to what was once head office; me and The Big Swinging Dick. Together.
I wasn't at work yesterday, and hadn't bothered to tell His Lordship about the vague possibility of an excursion which very quickly yesterday morning became a firmed up arrangement. So when The BSD announced to his lordship during the course of the morning that he, BSD would be taking your correspondent to Xville for some discipline His Lordship had a highly entertaining and entirely manufactured fit of gallant outrage.
When he'd been scraped down from the ceiling and had the full details explained to him, in particular the bit about getting a day off by way of compensation he calmed down quite considerably. The promise of getting all the gory details set the seal on his delight at my spending a few hours in the BSD's company.
More after the event which takes place this Friday.
I wasn't at work yesterday, and hadn't bothered to tell His Lordship about the vague possibility of an excursion which very quickly yesterday morning became a firmed up arrangement. So when The BSD announced to his lordship during the course of the morning that he, BSD would be taking your correspondent to Xville for some discipline His Lordship had a highly entertaining and entirely manufactured fit of gallant outrage.
When he'd been scraped down from the ceiling and had the full details explained to him, in particular the bit about getting a day off by way of compensation he calmed down quite considerably. The promise of getting all the gory details set the seal on his delight at my spending a few hours in the BSD's company.
More after the event which takes place this Friday.
Thursday, 19 July 2007
Great Expectations
This post takes us back to something that cropped up a little while ago: the Slob's brilliant plan to take up an allotment plot and make our fortune growing vegetables. I believe I suggested at the time that this plan would fail because he has No Staying Power. Sure enough he hasn't even had the stamina to see through the very necessary step of Taking Up The Allocation.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
The airing room
All my shifts this week are 13:00 starts and yesterday I managed to get in a bit of a muddle as a result of which I got less done than planned. I forgot to open up his room and give it a bit of fresh air until it was too late to be worthwhile. The stink does tend to build up quickly and was almost a physical thing when I opened the door as soon as I got back from the school run this morning. Today we were almost run over by the One Stop delivery truck, which makes a change from being nearly mown down the woman who runs the local betting shop.
It is a shame really because I've got a plan for that woman. I cooked it up last night while waiting for sleep to overcome me. Given that the road the school is on is a narrow side street which has room for only one vehicle at a time when lined on both sides by parked parents' vehicles all I'll have to do to get her attention is Stop. With traffic behind she'll have nowhere to go. She might even put down her mobile phone, normally a jammed to her ear and talk to me : and if I get her attention I'll give the irresponsible bitch a piece of my mind.
It is a shame really because I've got a plan for that woman. I cooked it up last night while waiting for sleep to overcome me. Given that the road the school is on is a narrow side street which has room for only one vehicle at a time when lined on both sides by parked parents' vehicles all I'll have to do to get her attention is Stop. With traffic behind she'll have nowhere to go. She might even put down her mobile phone, normally a jammed to her ear and talk to me : and if I get her attention I'll give the irresponsible bitch a piece of my mind.
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
Who does he think he's kidding
He really is peculiar. A whole lot of the time he gives every appearance of not giving a damn about anyone but himself, and certainly not giving a toss for their opinion.
Then Susan bless her makes a comment about my appearance and he comes over all solicitous. Am I eating enough, am I eating properly, am I sleeping properly. Blah, blah, blah.
Well this is the situation: when he isn't causing me grief I eat well enough, I weighed about 55kg when I was 25 and I weigh pretty much the same now. I'm not anorexic, eat fresh food in quantities etc etc. But when the shit hits the fan as for example it did last year when he behaved so despicably over taking my daughter from me for a week than I shut down. That week I ate almost nothing and lost a huge amount of weight.
Now I feel the tension escalating. We've got school holidays coming up and she's going away again. The only reason we all live under the same roof is because of her, so when she's away the misery is laid bare. The dysfunction that we are is utterly exposed.
His mother has taken the house off the market which means I've no chance in the near future of getting my money back. We're stuck in this danse macabre.
I didn't eat yesterday.
Then Susan bless her makes a comment about my appearance and he comes over all solicitous. Am I eating enough, am I eating properly, am I sleeping properly. Blah, blah, blah.
Well this is the situation: when he isn't causing me grief I eat well enough, I weighed about 55kg when I was 25 and I weigh pretty much the same now. I'm not anorexic, eat fresh food in quantities etc etc. But when the shit hits the fan as for example it did last year when he behaved so despicably over taking my daughter from me for a week than I shut down. That week I ate almost nothing and lost a huge amount of weight.
Now I feel the tension escalating. We've got school holidays coming up and she's going away again. The only reason we all live under the same roof is because of her, so when she's away the misery is laid bare. The dysfunction that we are is utterly exposed.
His mother has taken the house off the market which means I've no chance in the near future of getting my money back. We're stuck in this danse macabre.
I didn't eat yesterday.
Monday, 16 July 2007
A Rose by any other name
Why does he smell so awful? He pumps out a smell that is way beyond stale unwashed. I wouldn't mind except that he does it in my home, under my roof where it seems to get trapped. He broke a pane in the window of the room he sleeps in (you though? you actually thought? HA!) so the explanation for the stench isn't entirely down to a lack of adequate ventilation. When I get up in the morning I open the door to encourage a bit of through put and circulation but that only results in the Odour De Bastard drifting about halfway down the stairs over the course of the day. That means everytime I go up to the bathroom I have to pass through a wall of stink. This reek is like an invisible amorphous mass, somehow alive and malign. Then he gets home, gathers it up and takes it back into his room. He is Dr Frankenstein and the pong is his Monster.
Ew.
Ew.
Sunday, 15 July 2007
The Ex
The ex-vacuum cleaner is currently in pieces on the floor of the living room, which is where it has been for the past week or thereabouts.
The bastard's announcement that the vacuum cleaner had broken itself wasn't properly investigated until today - he's been out and I've had the chance examine the evidence for suicide. I think it might have had help. The defect is a broken ring that holds two parts of the 'hose' together. It is a thin strip of yellow plastic that clips around the two parts when put together and acts to hold the two in place.
It has snapped in half. That would only have happened if someone really stupid had been taking the two apart and snapped it in pulling it off. Possibly old age had given the plastic a fragility that caused it to snap rather than flex. But only a fiddler incapable of leaving well enough alone would have taken the damned thing off in the first place. Or a fool who'd vacuumed up something he shouldn't have and was trying to retrieve it from the pipe work.
Funny how I can manage to clean the house from top to toe with the machine without dicking around with the assembly. Now I'm' doing the house work with a hand held cordless rechargeable.
What fucking pain in the arse that is.
The bastard's announcement that the vacuum cleaner had broken itself wasn't properly investigated until today - he's been out and I've had the chance examine the evidence for suicide. I think it might have had help. The defect is a broken ring that holds two parts of the 'hose' together. It is a thin strip of yellow plastic that clips around the two parts when put together and acts to hold the two in place.
It has snapped in half. That would only have happened if someone really stupid had been taking the two apart and snapped it in pulling it off. Possibly old age had given the plastic a fragility that caused it to snap rather than flex. But only a fiddler incapable of leaving well enough alone would have taken the damned thing off in the first place. Or a fool who'd vacuumed up something he shouldn't have and was trying to retrieve it from the pipe work.
Funny how I can manage to clean the house from top to toe with the machine without dicking around with the assembly. Now I'm' doing the house work with a hand held cordless rechargeable.
What fucking pain in the arse that is.
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