I don't work any more because I don't work any more.
Another week, more hassle.
In the mirky morning glow, the chorus began. The inevitable dominance of squawks and hoots drowned the mellifluous melodies of the solo blackbird. The intermittent Tommy-gun rattle of the insolent magpies echoed between dormant buildings.
While the world slept, I stumbled into a new diurnal existence. Before long the sultry heat crept through the open windows. It was another day of blood, sweat and fears. Unlike the previous Monday, I was not to be tempted to the ground, rendered useless by Uhtoff. One fear eliminated. But there were two others sniffing on the horizon.
The management was proving to be uniquely unavailable. What sort of property management company neglect to answer their phone, have no voicemail and don’t return emails? Let me guess…Then I had to inform that great laudable institution The Department for Work and Pensions, about the change of address. I’d stalled long enough. I was to reserve Thursday for that delight.
Now aside from that, the most remarkable thing about the week was its lack of incident until Friday. The wonderful sensation of waking early was countered by the numb stupor of fighting off sleep. I missed the end of at least two football matches and some of the athletics.
Monday was dominated by trips to the charity shops and the fly-ridden bin department of the Bastille.
I managed to buy a little rattan drawer set to replace the plastic monstrosity in the airing cupboard. These massive drawers were filled with every conceivable bite-size cosmetic, moisturiser or shampoo lifted from hotels.
Not my doing. It gave me great pleasure to dump this squeezy tubular frippery into the big bins.
Tuesday was the usual physio and a quick trip to the supermarket. Soon Morrison’s cafe will become my dining out venue when the kitchen crashers invade. I don’t have a microwave. I don’t do ping cuisine but I have ordered lots of crisps for the rainy days. Man cannot live by crisp butties alone. (Oh yes he can.)
Either on Monday or Tuesday (vague heat-affected brain-fog in action) A man posted on Crowborough Life looking for a wheelchair. I gave him my rollator/wheelchair on condition that he took other things to the tip. On Wednesday the weather went cool. Did it rain? I have no idea as I frantically shifted stuff and threw stuff out.
Thursday came. I finally had an email from the property management cowboys. The call to the Department for W&P was looming. I rang. I had to bark answers and tap in numbers to this flat anonymous voice. Then came the twenty-minute wait. That’s twenty minutes of Vivaldi’s Spring-just the first twenty-four bars, constantly interrupted by “Thank you for holding, you call is important to us, our operators a very busy eating banana toasties and strawberry kippers.”
Then it was a sudden “hello Kirsty here can I take your full name please?” Beep, brrrrrrrrr.
Someone or something cut me off. I’d only just got to the h in my surname. Repeat. Twenty-five minutes of Spring followed by twenty minutes of conversation. Done.
Friday came. The kitchen came. It went dark. After the satisfaction of creating new spaces, I was locked in again. It’s only temporary.
During today’s usual Monday morning hi-de-hi call, Madame moaned about not informing her about the skip that was left in the car park.
Well, I didn’t know it was coming then. Next thing you know I’ll need written permission to fart. Good job she hasn’t seen the worktops in the hallway.