Moving.
“I didn’t know you’d moved house”. Says the World’s Most Amusing Woman.
I shan’t try and translate any of her essential ‘amusingness’ – it’s a kind of ‘how she says it’ sort of thing. Upon hearing that my Newly Gay Friend had briefly flirted with heterosexuality again before getting a new boyfriend she puffed her cheeks out, rolled her eyes, and said in the manner of an elderly Aunt, “Oooh he’s flighty isn’t he?” She’s 29 and uses the word ‘tomfoolery’ a lot. Like I say, you sort of have to hear her talk.
Anyway, it had just come up in conversation.
Me: Yup.
WMAW: But I thought you’d only just moved into that flat. You were quite pleased about the garden.
Blonde Colleague: Don’t even get me started-
Me: Shush. Yeah. But the washing-machine broke.
WMAW: So you thought ‘ah well, I’ll just move house’?
Me: Pretty much actually.
It was, of course, a little more complicated than that.
The flat was rented from a friend of mine; a situation that only the very idiotic get into but my back was sort of against the wall at the time for a number of reasons. Looking back on it, it was a fucking horrible place but was an improvement on the previous three years of shared-accommodation hell and it’s funny how quickly a person can get acclimatized to their surroundings – however unpleasant – and kid themselves that they’re acceptable.
One saving grace was the fitted kitchen complete with all white goods that came with the deal.
Except the washing-machine broke.
I explained this to my friend the Seven-Foot Sociopath.
SFS: No problem. These things happen.
Me: Thanks. So I’ll just arrange to get it repaired myself? I’ll get a receipt and take the money out of next months rent?
SFS: [Slowly putting down his pint]. No, that's on you. You have to pay for that.
Me: What?
SFS: It was rented to you part-furnished. You’re responsible for the furnishings.
Me: So when I move out I’ll be taking the furnishings with me then?
SFS: No. There’re mine.
Me: Yes. I’m not paying to maintain your kit.
SFS: Look, I did you a favour, you had nowhere else to go, I didn’t ask you for a deposit did I? Not like you can afford one either. Sooo-
Me: We’re not going to argue about this.
And we never have. And although what I said was “We’re not going to argue about this” what I was thinking was “Fuck you, fuck your flat and fuck your poxy fucking fuck of a washing machine that made my clothes smell a bit funny anyway you fucking lanky streak of cocking piss.”
Within two weeks and much negotiation with my new landlord I move into a really quite pleasant furnished house that includes a fully-functioning washing machine. Leaving an unrepaired-one behind.
The World’s Most Amusing Woman listens to this story agog.
WMAW: So rather than pay out – what? Fifty balloons or something – you MOVE HOUSE with all that upheaval and cost on a point of principal?
Me: Yes. And a washing-machine.
WMAW: [After some thought] Remind me never to give you an ultimatum. I think you are the most stubborn man I have ever met.
And perhaps I am – something that has not always gone in my favour. But what I know is this:
I would rather look at myself in the mirror at the end of the day and see the sort of idiot who would cut off his nose to spite his face than see a pussy – someone who’d roll over and take it for the sake of an easy life. I’d rather the stress, the logistical nightmare of a house move and the cost of hundreds of pounds than the knowledge that I am someone’s ‘bitch’.
As a postscript to this absurd episode; I did fret a little about telling Seven-Foot Sociopath that I was moving out with less than two weeks notice a fortnight before Christmas. He was out of order, but it’s a hell of a time to land someone in it.
Upon telling him, he replied with-
SFS: Actually I was wanting to talk to you anyway. We’re putting it on the market in January.
He had some bullshit idea that I'd buy the misery-pit from him. With all my millions I can only presume.
Which sort of vindicated my general pig-headedness. If I hadn’t been quite so stubborn, hadn’t possessed the small amounts of resourcefulness, ability and determination that I occasionally rely on, I would have been well and truly fucked.
So perhaps there’s a moral there somewhere.
And no. I don’t think we’re friends anymore.
I shan’t try and translate any of her essential ‘amusingness’ – it’s a kind of ‘how she says it’ sort of thing. Upon hearing that my Newly Gay Friend had briefly flirted with heterosexuality again before getting a new boyfriend she puffed her cheeks out, rolled her eyes, and said in the manner of an elderly Aunt, “Oooh he’s flighty isn’t he?” She’s 29 and uses the word ‘tomfoolery’ a lot. Like I say, you sort of have to hear her talk.
Anyway, it had just come up in conversation.
Me: Yup.
WMAW: But I thought you’d only just moved into that flat. You were quite pleased about the garden.
Blonde Colleague: Don’t even get me started-
Me: Shush. Yeah. But the washing-machine broke.
WMAW: So you thought ‘ah well, I’ll just move house’?
Me: Pretty much actually.
It was, of course, a little more complicated than that.
The flat was rented from a friend of mine; a situation that only the very idiotic get into but my back was sort of against the wall at the time for a number of reasons. Looking back on it, it was a fucking horrible place but was an improvement on the previous three years of shared-accommodation hell and it’s funny how quickly a person can get acclimatized to their surroundings – however unpleasant – and kid themselves that they’re acceptable.
One saving grace was the fitted kitchen complete with all white goods that came with the deal.
Except the washing-machine broke.
I explained this to my friend the Seven-Foot Sociopath.
SFS: No problem. These things happen.
Me: Thanks. So I’ll just arrange to get it repaired myself? I’ll get a receipt and take the money out of next months rent?
SFS: [Slowly putting down his pint]. No, that's on you. You have to pay for that.
Me: What?
SFS: It was rented to you part-furnished. You’re responsible for the furnishings.
Me: So when I move out I’ll be taking the furnishings with me then?
SFS: No. There’re mine.
Me: Yes. I’m not paying to maintain your kit.
SFS: Look, I did you a favour, you had nowhere else to go, I didn’t ask you for a deposit did I? Not like you can afford one either. Sooo-
Me: We’re not going to argue about this.
And we never have. And although what I said was “We’re not going to argue about this” what I was thinking was “Fuck you, fuck your flat and fuck your poxy fucking fuck of a washing machine that made my clothes smell a bit funny anyway you fucking lanky streak of cocking piss.”
Within two weeks and much negotiation with my new landlord I move into a really quite pleasant furnished house that includes a fully-functioning washing machine. Leaving an unrepaired-one behind.
The World’s Most Amusing Woman listens to this story agog.
WMAW: So rather than pay out – what? Fifty balloons or something – you MOVE HOUSE with all that upheaval and cost on a point of principal?
Me: Yes. And a washing-machine.
WMAW: [After some thought] Remind me never to give you an ultimatum. I think you are the most stubborn man I have ever met.
And perhaps I am – something that has not always gone in my favour. But what I know is this:
I would rather look at myself in the mirror at the end of the day and see the sort of idiot who would cut off his nose to spite his face than see a pussy – someone who’d roll over and take it for the sake of an easy life. I’d rather the stress, the logistical nightmare of a house move and the cost of hundreds of pounds than the knowledge that I am someone’s ‘bitch’.
As a postscript to this absurd episode; I did fret a little about telling Seven-Foot Sociopath that I was moving out with less than two weeks notice a fortnight before Christmas. He was out of order, but it’s a hell of a time to land someone in it.
Upon telling him, he replied with-
SFS: Actually I was wanting to talk to you anyway. We’re putting it on the market in January.
He had some bullshit idea that I'd buy the misery-pit from him. With all my millions I can only presume.
Which sort of vindicated my general pig-headedness. If I hadn’t been quite so stubborn, hadn’t possessed the small amounts of resourcefulness, ability and determination that I occasionally rely on, I would have been well and truly fucked.
So perhaps there’s a moral there somewhere.
And no. I don’t think we’re friends anymore.
posted by Tired Dad at
6:30 pm
12 Comments:
I like the sound of WMAW. I imagine her as someone who has dark hair, wears glasses, reads interesting stuff and has quite an expressive face... cos that's what I'd like to imagine her as.
And well moved, by the way. Your belligerence impresses me, as I think it might WMAW.
She does indeed have dark hair. Sadly the rest does not apply - she's one of those 'health & fitness' people so has no time for reading but as a mother one disapproving glance can reduce me to tears of laughter. And I think you're 'imagining' too much.
And thanks - although I'm not trying to impress anyone. Just making it clear to the world at large how intolerable I am.
are you sure it's you and not the world that is intolerable? I find you funny as hell,kid.
Far-reaching reverberations of the latest financial crisis. A friendship ended ... yet another thing to blame on the fat cat City bankers? (It's fun to blame them for stuff. Like insomnia.)
I like how Punxxi addresses you. I wouldn't have had the balls to call you 'kid'.
So...don't get mad, get even?
Hmm. I had a "friend" and a living arrangement like that a few years ago. I tried being positive about it, thinking that at least it spurred me into finding a better place to live where I am now very happy. But I couldn't quite resist seeding the entire house with tens of those oldfashioned stinky mothballs in hidden places before I left. It cheered me up every time I passed (I only moved down the road) to see the windows open in all weathers. We're not friends now, either.
P: The general consensus is that it's me. And thanks.
E: If anyone's to blame it's probably me for being stupid enough to get into the situation in the first place but you're right - it's always nice (and easy) to put it on someone else. But insomnia? That's a stretch.
And you can call me whatever you like - what am I going to do? Give someone a Chinese Burn over the internet?
J: Nothing like that. Just recognizing that a situation isn't going to get better and getting out of it before you start hating yourself more than you already do.
Interestingly, the last time I saw Seven Foot his face and shaved head were a mass of cuts, lumps and bruises after being set upon by a bunch of Freemasons (long story). Quite often I don't seem to have to do anything at all. I'm no believer in karma, but I'm just saying.
PB: I didn't do it on purpose but I now recall that I left a vegetating pile of soiled socks and underwear in the non-revolving drum of his broken washing machine. Does that count?
I'm with you on the 'better place' and 'very happy' thing though, even if I am now financially destitute for the REST OF MY LIFE. I had to make a fucking CURRY for the first time ever the other night because I knew the leftover meat would 'keep' longer that way. Jesus.
Poverty builds character, TD. Or so I'm told.
We'll see. A glass of fucking wine wouldn't go amiss but never mind.
New reader here. You're pretty fucking funny. Even to an American. But I appreciate the fact that we're not as funny as we think we are. I haven't gotten any work done the last two days as I read the archives. I don't think anyone has noticed.
Your 'friends' are so weird I will feel left out if I'm not included.
Mind you...our tumble dryer just packed in...so perhaps not eh?
Meg...Pretty? I have no idea
Fucking...Only if he's found a bird
Funny...If only he knew...
oh...soz TD...I thought it was my blog for a sec....oops..
Meg: Hi and thanks. Two days? Really? I didn't think there was that much in there.
Dinners: Dear God man get some sleep you're rambling.
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