Postcards From Hell

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!