Dear Diary

June 16, 2004

Jan 28th

Dearest dearest Diary, it’s been five weeks since I last wrote and I know that ‘Daily Scribbles’ was number one on my list but I think you’ll forgive me when I tell you just how crazy this new year’s been so far. Four weeks and I’m already sick to death of it.

First of all, Nancy ends up sloshed at Janice and Bill’s new year’s eve party, gets her tongue down Bill’s throat with a whole hour to go till midnight. Next thing you know Janice is chasing Bill around the block with a golf club and I have to see in the new year talking to a copper while Bill’s being loaded into an ambulance. Of course Nancy just had to jump in with him and then we get to watch Janice go postal with a shovel. If she hadn’t tripped on a Noddy in the flowerbed and knocked herself out I don’t know what she’d have done. After checking to see if she was still alive we loaded her in an ambulance (another ambulance, mind. Not with Bill. Imagine her waking up half way to the hospital and laying on Nancy and Bill with a bedpan… (Do they have bedpans in ambulances?)). So that was my new years eve, not quite the kind of ‘action’ I was hoping for, though the bob was quite cute in a Depp kind of way. Still, I suppose the last thing he needed after pulling a shift like that was a Crazed-Wife-With-Golf-Club-Rampage bystander coming on to him…

Oh, okay! So he winked at me twice, made sure I got his name by S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G it out to me and told me which station he worked out of (not the one down Cooper Street, the one on Coogan Street next to the Fish ‘N Chip shop). Hey, it’s been eight months already, ’bout time I moved on and I could do worse anyway.

Anyway! Bill’s in hospital for a week with concussion, a broken arm and two broken ribs. Nancy doesn’t leave his side the entire time, doting on him every minute of the day while Janice has herself a nice little bonfire in the back garden, changes the locks and sells his car.

So guess who our new flatmate is? That’s right, you guessed it; Mr William My-Wife-Beat-Me-Up-‘Cos-I’m-A-Cheating-Sod-Don’t-You-Feel-Sorry-For-Me Spence. he’s been moping around the flat moaning about how much he hurts or how unreasonable and bitchy Janice is being about things. Or he’s got his tongue down Nancy’s throat. Or Nancy’s doing a Mother Hen routine that would have any self-respecting male contemplating a murder-suicide after five seconds of it. Needless to say things around the house have been anything but ‘Sweet Home’. More like Purgatory with a bit of German S&M thrown in for good measure. Speaking of which, Bill’s in one of those full upper body casts with the bit that keeps his arm stuck out in the air so I’m guessing S&M isn’t quite far from the truth when the two of them disappear into the bedroom, as they do at least a dozen times a day. Oh, the screams. The humanity.

So, I guess Bill moving in was the last straw. Nancy never was very easy to live with. Each time she did something Bloody-Stupidly-Mindbogglingly-AARGGH!! I just kidded myself into thinking that it was just a phase she was going through and things would get better. But, No. This house isn’t big enough for me, and Nancy’s neuroses, and Bill Look-What-The-Cat-Dragged-In Spence. So, I’m moving out. I know I’ve said that before, I lost count at 29, but this time I mean it. Been scouring the listings religiously every day. It’s been five years since I last looked for a place so I’m a little rusty but the lingo’s coming back to me.

For example, ‘Compact’ means only suitable for Smurfs and small rodents. ‘Well Maintained’ means the walls have 40 coats of paint, all of which are peeling. ‘Scenic Views’… of the back end of a sewage processing plant, fog permitting. And ‘Conveniently Located’… between a wrecking yard and a nightclub.

Well, it’s not really that bad. I’ve seen a couple of promising ones, but there’s always something not quite right. Like the one down Hampden Lane to share with a retired nurse. She was quite charming in a Miss Marple kind of way. But she collected those crazy big-headed nodding dolls that you see on dashboards. She had thousands of them! All over the house, even on the balcony! Imagine having to look at them every day, and pray you don’t jostle a shelf and set them all nodding and bobbing and spinning their heads like an army of Chuckies.

And then there was the fireman, who was Hot! And gay. But Hot! Wouldn’t mind looking at that all day. Did I mention he was Hot(!)? But he also had a cat. I’m not quite so sure about the cat. Probably has to do with the way I met the moggie to begin with. I ring the doorbell and Hot (Gay) Fireman(!) (drool!) opens door. He says ‘hi’ and ‘come in’ and I’m just about to open the screen door when this enraged furry ball of teeth and claws launches itself right at my face. It hangs there, hissing and spitting at me and chewing at the screen. A couple of large holes in the door kinda makes me think he’s done this before.

‘Oh, don’t mind him. He’s really a big softy. Let me get him on his chain and you can come right in.’

Chain?!? That should have been my first warning sign. But did I say something about a Hot(!) Fireman before? Pity about the gay part.

So, he comes back after a few minutes. I can hear this ghastly gibbering and screeching coming from somewhere in the house and god help me if the damned cat wasn’t chained to the big metal fireplace grating. It just kept staring at me, and pacing back and forth as close to me as the chain would let him. And there was a worn out strip on the carpet, which was kinda exactly under the cats feet. That was warning number two.

Warning number three was when the cat sat down and started gnawing at his chew toy. It was a baseball bat. The metal kind.

Warning number four was a water dish with the name ‘Fluffles’ written on the side in bright pink letters.

I didn’t need a fifth warning. Any cat named Fluffles that teethes on sporting equipment for recreation cannot be conducive to a long life.

Hot(!) Sigh.

The next was an interesting guy, who was a photographer and had the most amazing pictures in his house of all the places around the world he’d travelled to. Spent quite a while chatting to him over a cuppa and was starting to think that I’d found the perfect place after only two tries when it turns out he’s got a foot fetish and reads fortunes by sniffing ones shoes. Okay, I’m open-minded and all but when he started getting off on my pumps I figured it was time to make a hasty exit WITH my shoes.

Oh well, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I just didn’t realise i’d be needing therapy afterwards.

I’ve found another ad I’m going to check out tomorrow. It’s listed as a ‘Spacious’ (suitable for gerbils and ferrets) ‘Victorian’ (old, with wiring that will ignite BEFORE any appliance is brought on the premises) house. Bedroom with ‘ensuite’ (window low enough to pee out of), with a ‘Festive Sunroom’ (room with hole in roof).

Oh, I’m being bloody cynical again, but can you blame me??

If only I could click my heels and find myself in my dream home. Oh well, gotta keep at it.

And I think you’ll agree that I’ve more than made up for my time away. Got to get some sleep now or I’ll miss my appointment and we wouldn’t want me to miss out on a lovely opportunity ‘cos I didn’t show and a ferret got it instead.

Night night.


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