I've gone from living in Hell to living in Hell plus. We've had a heat wave for weeks-since June-and, although we finally got some rain last week, it still wasn't enough to make a difference.The services: airlines, trains, just about anything you could name-have ground to a halt in some areas.
When the temperature rises above 20C (68F), I start to sweat. So you can imagine how delightful it's been, having more than 90 degrees for days. Actually, for weeks. I sweat. You can find me easily by just following a sweat trail. My hair frizzes to the point where I look like a white person with an afro. My friend Julie has an afro-but she's black, and, trust me, it looks much better on her.
I also get ratty-I'm really bad tempered in severe heat. So when some imbecile-and imbeciles are everywhere, this country has more imbeciles per square mile than it has rats (and there are ten rats to every person in this country, so statistics will tell you). They see someone with a stick and obvious mobility challenges, and they aim right for me. If I was quick enough, I'd give them some mobility challenges!
I told you a little about the area in which I've been living since a few months after the gentamicin poisoning. My friend Eileen (Irish, not English, so you know that she has functioning grey matter), has heard all the stories about the neighbors, and last week she said that I should put the latest ones in the blog, because nobody would really believe that it's all true. It's true. Sadly. And I'm going to use real names, because I confuse myself (and you) by forgetting who has been given which name. It's a sudden attack of what I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit). I'm cheered by the fact that I know several people who are in their 20s and 30s who suffer from the same malady. Of course, some of them are from Essex. No surprise there!!
I've been fighting the landlord since two neighbors, Rob and Ellen, approached me for help because there have been drug dealers and drug addicts doing their business right outside their windows. They went to everyone: police, antisocial behavior department, and found that everyone they approached was useless. They went to their good friend Toothless Tosser Terry (my neighbor next door, so that gives you an indication of their lack of taste and judgment). Any good? No.
I jumped in, fighting, and the results were almost immediate. Two senior directors and one policeman arrived a few days later, and looked closely at the area in question, made several promises (I'm old enough to trust nobody who makes promises-especially people who work for the government), left, and the shit hit the fan.
Apparently, Rob and Ellen-and their neighbor, Sandra, who was away when the meeting took place-told everyone how much I'd helped them, and Rob thanked me repeatedly. Terry the Tosser accused me of thinking that I did everything. I naturally told him that was true, since he did nothing for two and a half years.
To shorten a long story: Rob, Ellen and Sandra hate-and I do mean hate, as strong a word as it is-several of their neighbors down at their end of the little apartment complex. I'm at the other end, so all the fighting doesn't affect me. But did I stay out of it? Of course not. I sat for several afternoons, listening sympathetically while Rob said that he was going to kill Eamon, the noisiest neighbor from Hell. And then Rob and Sandra started to ask me to do things that they could easily do themselves: send an email to the housing people, send an email to the directors, find accommodation for Sandra's friend Caroline who has allegedly been abused by her partner for years, but has no evidence to support going to the council to be rehoused...
Next time I post I will give you a bit of background on all the little old darlings. The fact that they're all in one place and haven't killed each other is just mind boggling. It's like someone emptied the asylums and put the crazy people in with exceptionally nasty old people who have nothing better to do than spout vitriol at their neighbors while spying on them with-get this-binoculars. Yes, I did say binoculars. And I've been asking myself since May (actually since I moved in) why on earth I was put there. Of course, there was a vacancy (someone died) and the hospital was afraid that I would go flying downstairs and crack my head open (I do know how that feels.), so the borough had to find me something. It could all have been worse.
Rob and Ellen keep asking me to come over for tea. It's almost always to complain about this one, or that one, and I'm such a sucker for a sob story that I go and try to convince them to feel sorry for the other guys, since they have no other life of any consequence. No luck.
Now when I go over there, the tea comes with a request to email this one, or that one, and last week was the last straw. Would you please email the director about the fence that's going up? The man who's doing the work needs authorization. And what's wrong with him that he can't get the authorization himself? Well, you could get it more quickly.
Sometimes it takes crossing the line too many times to get me to put my foot down. I'd like to put it down on someone's head, but he's a lot bigger than I am. I can make my own tea, thanks, and when I see the new fence I just smile and say to myself that I did that. I did something for everyone who lives there. But I have done enough. As for Toothless Tosser Terry: we say hello, we're next door neighbors, but I never stop to talk. I don't talk to slime. And I truly believe that he's got testicles the size of chick peas. I'll bet they called him "needle dick" at school.
I'll tell you about everyone else next time, so you can have a good laugh. Meanwhile, I'm going to Starbucks. If I drank, I would be off to the pub. I've got a group of neighbors who are more than enough to drive anyone to drink!
Tuesday 31 July 2018
Wednesday 18 July 2018
Sometimes you just have to walk away...
You might be kicking and screaming-but when you've gotta go, you've just gotta go. Nobody said that life is going to be easy. Believe me. I know.
I've had a hellish time since I wrote last. For one thing, we've had a constant heatwave since the beginning of June: higher than 90F, which will amuse my friends in Florida and the east coast no end. That's probably like a cold snap in the middle of summer over there. But I am really terrible in the heat.
I like having the sun shine. I just don't like severe heat and humidity. When my hair starts to frizz (over 20C or 68F), I start to sweat. And I do mean sweat. I don't glow, I don't have a lovely sheen, I leave a sweat trail wherever I go. That isn't a nice look, trust me. And my balance pays the price, as does my vision. I also get very ratty. I've got a short fuse anyway; when I'm too hot and sticky, I've got no fuse at all. If there's any air conditioning, I will find it. But this is England, and they finally woke up to the importance of not having everyone dying of heat stroke, so the big stores have a/c. I can always tell someone who is inside wandering around, picking up stuff but not buying anything; they're the ones who are suffering from the heat and trying desperately not to keel. over. I'm one of them. Misery doesn't always love company.
Between the severe heat, the humidity, and the ugliest people you have ever seen practically walking around naked, it's been a very unpleasant few weeks. I'm looking forward to cooler weather (if I don't melt into a puddle on the ground first)-then I'll be moaning about it being too cold. I promise I won't. If I want to moan about cold weather, I'll remember this summer from hell and I'll keep my mouth shut-and be grateful.
I said that sometimes you have to just know when to walk away-and go, even if you're kicking and screaming, because there is no point in fighting a losing battle.This has been that kind of month.
I helped my neighbors, who were having a terrible problem with drug addicts and dealers doing their business right outside their windows. Terry Two Face, my obnoxious and revolting next door neighbor, kept strutting around (still does, too-like a demented peacock. Or, rather, cockroach), telling everyone that he is in charge, but doing nothing except expelling a lot of hot air. So when these neighbors (his friends, sadly) asked me for help, I couldn't say sod off and make Terry do something. I knew that he's completely incompetent, so I started emailing the people in charge, and less than a week later, those in charge paid us a visit.
Things are happening. A security light was put on the wall outside these neighbors' windows, and it switches on when someone walks by. Yay. Success. It's a beginning, but the beginning of some security that is needed in an area where the residents are disabled. Am I proud of myself? Yes, and I worked hard for eight weeks (nearly nine) to make it happen. But...
I got a repeated thank you from Pete and his girlfriend, but not from anyone else. I didn't expect a thank you, I didn't do anything for thanks. But Pete and Teresa contact me every time they need something. When they ask me to come over for a cup of tea, there's always a motive. Always. Their neighbor is called Sandra, and the drug problem was happening outside her kitchen window. So you would think that she would say thanks-just as a matter of courtesy. No, she didn't acknowledge me at all. But she is good friends with Terry Two Face, and we don't speak at all, so there's no surprise at all. Only-last week I got a text from Pete. Come for a glass of wine (it was Friday evening). And I didn't feel like going over there, because I had a feeling that there was an agenda in place. How right I was.
Pete was very insistent. Please come for just one glass. So I went (if a sucker is born every minute, I must have been born twice). No sooner than I sat down, Teresa poured the last glass of wine from the fourth bottle that was out on the table. Sandra was there, so was her friend Carole, and everyone was pretty wasted. They'd been drinking for hours, they said. Teresa poured the wine and immediately told me that Sandra's friend is constantly battered; could I help get her a place nearby. They all started, singing my praises, saying that if anyone could help, it would be me.
To shorten a long story: Carole has no documentation, no police reports, photos, doctor's reports, or evidence of any kind. And I first met Carole two years ago, and it was the same story then, and hasn't changed in two years.
Well, I said that she needs proof: documentation, witnesses, GP's report, police reports...I said that she has to do things in the proper order, because she also said that if anyone put her in a hostel, she would kill herself. I listened to all this crap for over two hours, and then I made my excuses and left.
The point of the story? My neighbor Ellen, who is 85 and very wise (not wise enough to quit smoking when she has COPD), stopped me the next day and told me that I shouldn't let these people use me. Did I tell her the story? No, I did not. But she knows that several people have come to me, moaning about things that are broken, or don't work, or should be changed...Ellen said that it's the people who are trying to save the world (even a small part of it), who want to help everyone who needs it (if they can), who are used and then thrown away. She pointed out that people don't like the renegades of the world, even though the renegades are the ones who create change in the world. People who push, who forge ahead regardless of opposition, who make things happen-they're the ones people don't want as friends, or to socialize with because they're only useful when they can do something for someone else.
Ellen finished by saying that I'm looking very pale and stressed, and that I need to stop what I'm doing and start doing the things that I enjoy. Let the users take action themselves, she said. And that was that.
So, after nearly nine weeks of being up to my eyeballs in the neighbor situation, I am taking Ellen's good advice and I'm walking away. She is right. I've had quite enough of being used. All these people are old enough to do things themselves. If they're not willing to do that-well, don't come to me and expect me to stop living and help them. They can shove their flattery and platitudes up their asses-not that I didn't realize what was going on, because I can spot an agenda from a mile away. But be honest. Play nice. And fuck off.
So there you go. It's so hot outside, that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And if you're really either stupid or crazy, you could probably eat it, too.
I'll be back soon. I'm on my way to Starbucks. It's air conditioned.
I've had a hellish time since I wrote last. For one thing, we've had a constant heatwave since the beginning of June: higher than 90F, which will amuse my friends in Florida and the east coast no end. That's probably like a cold snap in the middle of summer over there. But I am really terrible in the heat.
I like having the sun shine. I just don't like severe heat and humidity. When my hair starts to frizz (over 20C or 68F), I start to sweat. And I do mean sweat. I don't glow, I don't have a lovely sheen, I leave a sweat trail wherever I go. That isn't a nice look, trust me. And my balance pays the price, as does my vision. I also get very ratty. I've got a short fuse anyway; when I'm too hot and sticky, I've got no fuse at all. If there's any air conditioning, I will find it. But this is England, and they finally woke up to the importance of not having everyone dying of heat stroke, so the big stores have a/c. I can always tell someone who is inside wandering around, picking up stuff but not buying anything; they're the ones who are suffering from the heat and trying desperately not to keel. over. I'm one of them. Misery doesn't always love company.
Between the severe heat, the humidity, and the ugliest people you have ever seen practically walking around naked, it's been a very unpleasant few weeks. I'm looking forward to cooler weather (if I don't melt into a puddle on the ground first)-then I'll be moaning about it being too cold. I promise I won't. If I want to moan about cold weather, I'll remember this summer from hell and I'll keep my mouth shut-and be grateful.
I said that sometimes you have to just know when to walk away-and go, even if you're kicking and screaming, because there is no point in fighting a losing battle.This has been that kind of month.
I helped my neighbors, who were having a terrible problem with drug addicts and dealers doing their business right outside their windows. Terry Two Face, my obnoxious and revolting next door neighbor, kept strutting around (still does, too-like a demented peacock. Or, rather, cockroach), telling everyone that he is in charge, but doing nothing except expelling a lot of hot air. So when these neighbors (his friends, sadly) asked me for help, I couldn't say sod off and make Terry do something. I knew that he's completely incompetent, so I started emailing the people in charge, and less than a week later, those in charge paid us a visit.
Things are happening. A security light was put on the wall outside these neighbors' windows, and it switches on when someone walks by. Yay. Success. It's a beginning, but the beginning of some security that is needed in an area where the residents are disabled. Am I proud of myself? Yes, and I worked hard for eight weeks (nearly nine) to make it happen. But...
I got a repeated thank you from Pete and his girlfriend, but not from anyone else. I didn't expect a thank you, I didn't do anything for thanks. But Pete and Teresa contact me every time they need something. When they ask me to come over for a cup of tea, there's always a motive. Always. Their neighbor is called Sandra, and the drug problem was happening outside her kitchen window. So you would think that she would say thanks-just as a matter of courtesy. No, she didn't acknowledge me at all. But she is good friends with Terry Two Face, and we don't speak at all, so there's no surprise at all. Only-last week I got a text from Pete. Come for a glass of wine (it was Friday evening). And I didn't feel like going over there, because I had a feeling that there was an agenda in place. How right I was.
Pete was very insistent. Please come for just one glass. So I went (if a sucker is born every minute, I must have been born twice). No sooner than I sat down, Teresa poured the last glass of wine from the fourth bottle that was out on the table. Sandra was there, so was her friend Carole, and everyone was pretty wasted. They'd been drinking for hours, they said. Teresa poured the wine and immediately told me that Sandra's friend is constantly battered; could I help get her a place nearby. They all started, singing my praises, saying that if anyone could help, it would be me.
To shorten a long story: Carole has no documentation, no police reports, photos, doctor's reports, or evidence of any kind. And I first met Carole two years ago, and it was the same story then, and hasn't changed in two years.
Well, I said that she needs proof: documentation, witnesses, GP's report, police reports...I said that she has to do things in the proper order, because she also said that if anyone put her in a hostel, she would kill herself. I listened to all this crap for over two hours, and then I made my excuses and left.
The point of the story? My neighbor Ellen, who is 85 and very wise (not wise enough to quit smoking when she has COPD), stopped me the next day and told me that I shouldn't let these people use me. Did I tell her the story? No, I did not. But she knows that several people have come to me, moaning about things that are broken, or don't work, or should be changed...Ellen said that it's the people who are trying to save the world (even a small part of it), who want to help everyone who needs it (if they can), who are used and then thrown away. She pointed out that people don't like the renegades of the world, even though the renegades are the ones who create change in the world. People who push, who forge ahead regardless of opposition, who make things happen-they're the ones people don't want as friends, or to socialize with because they're only useful when they can do something for someone else.
Ellen finished by saying that I'm looking very pale and stressed, and that I need to stop what I'm doing and start doing the things that I enjoy. Let the users take action themselves, she said. And that was that.
So, after nearly nine weeks of being up to my eyeballs in the neighbor situation, I am taking Ellen's good advice and I'm walking away. She is right. I've had quite enough of being used. All these people are old enough to do things themselves. If they're not willing to do that-well, don't come to me and expect me to stop living and help them. They can shove their flattery and platitudes up their asses-not that I didn't realize what was going on, because I can spot an agenda from a mile away. But be honest. Play nice. And fuck off.
So there you go. It's so hot outside, that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And if you're really either stupid or crazy, you could probably eat it, too.
I'll be back soon. I'm on my way to Starbucks. It's air conditioned.
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