The monster known as Monkey pox (Terry Baster) - 1 ...everyone else - hmmm....

 And what's the latest on my attacker, Terry Baster (aka Monkey Pox, the scourge of Hornsey)?

It's now been four weeks since the less than graceful fall into the steel railings that left me with a severe concussion and very nasty facial injuries. Most of the bruises and swelling on my face have cleared; I don't look like I've been punched repeatedly in the face by whoever is the world boxing champion. Or a bus. But there's enough bruising left on one side of my face-and my eye-that people I know have asked me who hit me. So I've got a way to go until full healing takes place-and possibly another two months or so until the headaches have gone. Oh joy.

As for Baster (as my friend in Dublin calls him: Bastard), the council has done absolutely nothing. I sent them the horrific photos of my injuries and, true to form. Haringey never acknowledged. Nobody even bothered to phone me to ask if I was okay. That's Haringey for you: they couldn't care less about the tenants, even those of us who pay rent and are quiet and no bother to anyone.

I've been mostly using Arnica (homeopathic remedy for bruising), taking painkillers. and keeping to myself wherever possible. When I leave the house, I double check the entrances and exits, and examine every step before I go up or down. I'm hyper vigilant. Nobody should have to live like that. But I do. Now I know what it feels like to have a severe concussion. It's no fun.

Has anything changed (apart from my face)? Well- I thought you'd never ask...

I went to the police (finally) and made a police complaint; I was then told that I waited too long, there were no witnesses (everyone loves their bloody witnesses!), so the police won't pursue it. No wonder people hate the police.

On Monday there was a meeting of the residents' association-a joke if there ever was one. Some nitwit at Haringey decided that all the tenants would be better off working together. Such a stupid idea! Monkey pox doesn't work well with others.

During this meeting, Pox (monkey pox, pox, whatever-same thing) stood up and started cursing at me, threatening me, and then turned his attention to the tenants' advocate, Rob. He and Rob despise each other, so what else did Monkey Pox do? He threatened to come around the table and punch Rob in the face. In front of six witnesses, one of whom works for-Haringey Council. Witnesses. One works for the council, so he can't lie.

I remember the wise words of my grandfather: give someone enough rope and they will hang themselves with it. Don't ever (he went on to say) forget that. It will come in handy one day. Wise words which I dismissed (teenagers rarely listen anyway. I didn't.

Rob asked me to help him file a police report-and I did. I also helped him email the very people who dismissed all of us as big children who just don't like each other (antisocial behavior. Waste of time, like the rest of the council).

The police are -allegedly-going to follow up Rob's claim. When they do, Monkey Pox should get a backlash from the council, who should also get a backlash from our local councillor (politicians sometimes can help. We got a good one).

I will let you know the outcome of the statement taking tomorrow. We'll finally see if something will be done about this psychopath before he hurts anyone else-or kills me, as he has threatened more than once. Has he been hoist by his own petard (hung with his own rope)?

I hope so. Living with this kind of threat is very wearing. Anyone out there who has had this experience: I absolutely know how you feel.

Fingers crossed. This is one of those times when I wish I was related to someone like the Sopranos. LOL anyone remember the Sopranos? Only television, of course-but the real thing would be so very useful right about now. 

The Continuing Saga of Monkeypox

 I sent photos of my smashed face to-well, everyone. The landlord said nothing-clearly couldn't care less. But my friends were fuming. My friend in Dublin calls him Terry Bastard (very appropriate); I just call him monkey pox. Even more appropriate. And now Terry Baster has a new ally: Lorna Shannon, the most evil, obnoxious, malicious, malignant gossip in the entire area. Shannon is known to the police for making nuisance calls, accusing innocent people of doing things they haven't done. She's also known to the council-and to her previous neighbors-for spreading the most terrible-and untrue-gossip anyone could possibly imagine. 

And Shannon is in my building-adjacent to the stairs that were deliberately oiled nearly three weeks ago. Coincidence? Hardly. 

Baster seems to be channeling his inner Charles Manson-but with no teeth. Well-a few teeth, all rotten, and tattoos everywhere you can see (probably also places you can't see-but who would want to? What a nauseating idea). Who else would have a huge tattoo up one arm-that says "bollocks" in capital letters? 

When Baster snaps his fingers, his wannabes jump. It's astonishing how stupid people can be, and how easily led by a psychopath they can be. 

Am I safe? No. Does anyone who can do anything care? Also no. 

There aren't any more things I can do-or at least, think of doing. The police won't do anything unless he attacks me (typical police in this country). The council? They couldn't give a rat's ass as long as I pay my rent. Typical of Haringey, one of the worst boroughs in the country. The media? They've got Dizzy Lizzy, the new prime minister, who is currently doing her best to destroy the economy-and Kwarteng, the chancellor, who is-a moron. 

Plus, the crime rate has shot up astronomically since the end of lockdown, so they've got more important news. I guess. Murder would get their attention-but I'm not keen on that one.

The positive news is that most of the swelling has gone down, and the horrific bruises are turning interesting shades of yellow. A few more days and I'll look normal, rather than someone who got the crap beaten out of me. 

That's the update-so far, so good. But if you're anywhere around Haringey, Baster and Shannon are (I believe) on Facebook. And they only go for people who are disabled -or otherwise physically vulnerable. They like people who can't fight back. They like people who won't fight back.

They chose badly.

The anti-Royalist police

 No, the anti-royalist police didn't come and arrest me. If hey had, I'd probably still be in jail.

The Brits gave the queen a good sendoff. Just wait until the taxpayers get the bill..

What I find interesting is that the British are obsessed with the royal family-and everyone who is famous (or would like to be). Royal family first-then the weather (ever meet a Brit who can't help but discuss the weather? Me. neither). Then drinking (as in, alcohol. Beer. Spirits. Anything that they can stuff down.). To them, getting pissed is grand. Then being as obnoxious, rude, stupid, horrible to everyone else (especially dogs and cats, who can't protect themselves). 

At the very bottom of the list of obsessions is: moaning. They whinge about everything. It's too hot (it's summer, you moron). It's too cold (autumn. Ditto.) 

In all fairness, I do my share of whingeing-but to you, since you know how much I love to put them down, wind them up, and generally make fun of them. That isn't an obsession. It's a hobby.

And nearly two weeks ago, the lunatic neighbor who has been threatening to kill me for more than three years nearly succeeded. Nothing to do with making fun of him, because I stay as far away from him as I can. A word of advice: stay away from mentally deranged people-even if you have to cross the street to do so.

Well... I've learned to keep my opinions to myself; I thought that if I avoided Terry Baster at all costs, I'd be okay. And I was wrong; I've got the black eye, bruised head, bruises everywhere, and a nasty concussion to prove it. Still got the black eye and all the bruises after ten days. CT scan at the hospital shows no evidence of a subdural hematoma, but I'm told that I have a bad concussion-and it could clear in a few more weeks, or could take up to three months. 

The embarrassing fact is that the police won't do anything about it because there are no witnesses. Even worse, the landlord (London Borough of Haringey, rated one of the worst in London-no surprise there!) refuses to take action. No witnesses, no evidence. Apparently my smashed face doesn't count as evidence! You couldn't make this up...

In case you're wondering how and why this happened: Baster "liked me" three and a half years ago. I wasn't impressed (if you looked at him you'd know why), but I was polite. I was only polite. Early on, I had to tell him that I was in a relationship and didn't go out with anyone else. Then he started to ask why the man didn't come around to the flat. I said that he won't come around because everyone is so nosy. And I had to tell him (politely) to back off, that I wasn't interested.

From then on, he stalked me and made my life hell. No matter how many times I reported him-Haringey turned a blind eye. They protect their mentally deranged tenants, I was told last week. 

So that brings us to the present. Unfortunately, if I carry so much as a nail file, I could be arrested if I wave it in self-defense. It's considered a weapon. Personally, I'd rather use it and still be alive-even if I'm arrested for assault. With a nail file. 

You couldn't make this up, could you? 

I'm going to go back, look everywhere before (and after) I go into my building, and make myself a good, strong coffee. And double-lock the door.

Just whem you thought it was safe...the fertilizer hits the fan

 I must be getting old. I'm getting polite. First, the ghastly replacement for the even more ghastly Bozo, the ever so crooked prime minister, gets appointed: an officious oaf called Liz Truss. She's bullish-but incompetent. Aren't they all?

Well...Liz got thrown off the deep end. Too bad it wasn't the cliff that her promises of "delivery" are leading us over. At least, if we survive without food, utilities, decent-well, everything (unless you're a millionaire, because everyone else is being taxed to death. Literally). 

On Thursday, I was coming back from infusions, and I had to lie down-after eating something and taking two headache pills. I was okay-just had a thumping head. I turned on the radio and discovered that the queen died. Oh, my! I'm sad for all the millions of people who adored her, but I have to say that I was never one of them.

So we've been subjected to the most nauseating, simpering, sentimentality- we've been bombarded with people weeping and wailing, you'd think the world just ended. I got very ticked off after a day of hearing all the messages from everywhere-the radio stations played crap music that sounded more like a dirge than music. The television stations stopped all the decent shows and all they would show was anything having to do with the queen. And Phil. And Charlie. Ad nauseum. 

There was so much crawling that I could feel my blood sugar rising just by listening to all the crap that the listening and viewing public got rammed down our throats.

Okay, the old girl was on the throne for 70 years (that must have been painful). And this is a monarchy, after all. And people are indoctrinated to think that the queen and all the sycophants, parasites and hangers-on are special, they have a sense of entitlement that the rest of us don't deserve. WHAT?? My egalitarian background and my feminist ideas are just making me jump up and down in disgust.

Sorry if you're a monarchist. Sorry if you're a hopeless romantic and believe in the prince/princess/man on a white horse coming to rescue you-and all that crap. 

I'm a realist and a pragmatist. When the pervert prince (Andy, what a creep) ran home to mummy and mummy didn't force him to go to New York and go on trial-the creep was-and is-guilty as sin. And the queen gave him a free pass. She should have given him a free ticket: to New York, to face the music like a man (that he isn't). All victims of child abuse and child molestation are probably still weeping at the injustice.

Then there's that vicious, low-life, parasite Harry. He lived off his old man for 30-odd years, so now he complains. It didn't stop him from taking money from the bank of Dad, did it? As for Meghan-she was crap in Suits, and the only performance (still not believable) was her weeping to Oprah (America's biggest gossip, with no credibility whatsoever) that she faced racism at the palace. According to people who worked there, she's a liar. There was never any racism, and she was never suicidal. She's now offended all black people everywhere, and insulted people who really were/are suicidal. 

Meghan's a disgusting and disgraceful liar. The pair deserve each other. They're so pathologically jealous of his brother and sister in law that they'll say anything. Oh, please, enough slander and libel. Why are those two still carrying their titles, which they don't deserve? Why are they still living off the very people they profess to hate? Someone tell the king to strip them of all their titles-permanently and forever-and their kids, too-take back the cottage and ban them from every royal residence everywhere.

Now you see why I have no respect for the royal family. Charlie has spent years giving to charities-the Princes Trust has done miracles for millions of people-but the rest of them? People in this country are going without enough food, without utilities (gas and electricity) because they can't afford to feed their families and heat their homes at the same time. The country is in a mess, Truss the moron won't tax the high earners and the rich companies because (she says) they should be putting more money into the country. What's left of it. 

So-the queen was 96. That's a good age (unless you happen to be 95. Then it's something to think about). And the rest of them go on living the good life while their "subjects" are starving. 

Does that seem right to you? It doesn't seem right to me at all; it seems criminal. 

Well-we're stuck with all this garbage until after the funeral. Thank goodness for Neflix.

I may be a wimp-but I'm a happy wimp

 I said last time that I was due to go for the fifth Covid jab on Friday. I've put it off since I was "invited" (that means ordered) to have it in June. I remembered how I felt after the last three; I'll remember that for life, probably.

Oh, well. I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in synchronicity, but not coincidence. And I kept wondering if I should cancel it for the sixth time, since I didn't think I could take another five days of agony. So I wandered around all week, and came to the conclusion that I was well and truly indoctrinated when it came to doctors believing that they know best. I knew that was a total lie twelve years ago.

On Thursday I went for my infusions. While I was waiting for my taxi outside the hospital, my phone rang. It was the testing centre-and my decision was made for me. They were doing polio vaccinations for the next few months until all the 1-10 year olds had the polio jab. So every Covid booster was cancelled. Talk about good luck!

I was so happy that I had to restrain myself from punching the air in triumph. If that wasn't a sign of refusing the fifth booster, I don't know what was. And that taught me a lesson: if I get a bad feeling about something, don't do it. Ever.

So that was my day of reprieve. I walked around all afternoon whispering thank you-quietly, of course. Is there a god/spirit/higher power/ super consciousness/bacon sandwich-who knows, and who cares? Someone or something was definitely looking after me. 

It's been a week, however. I live in a small community which was earmarked for disabled people; I didn't know when I moved in that some of the people were mentally disabled. If you have been following me for awhile, you'll know the story of the reptile who has been making everyone's lives a misery. And you'll also know that I got involved at the beginning of June. Now that I think about it, I think that my ego was involved, rather than my good sense. I should have said no. And the stress of dealing with 60+ year old people who behave like four year olds has taken its toll. On Wednesday I was walking back from the shops and I burst into tears. Truly not my finest moment. I had a meltdown. I managed to cry myself all the way back, locked the door, made myself a strong coffee, and sat and wept for a little while. Then I decided that I needed that to show me that the stress of dealing with idiots was too much stress. I'm done.

I'm stuck in the old quandary of getting myself as gracefully as possible out of the cesspit-or having to deal with the stress of dealing with people who are brainless and ungrateful. Truly. They seem to believe that they are entitled to everything without actually doing any work. And now I'm venting...First I cried uncontrollably for about an hour, now I'm venting. I rarely do either, so we know that I need to go and let them all fight it out by themselves.

I think that we come to a point in our lives when we need to examine our priorities and decide what is important. I was always an activist-and now I just want to enjoy middle age before I turn around and croak. So I'm going to do the things I promised to do, attend the meetings I said I would attend, and stop sending emails to the landlord, because as long as they get their pay every week, they don't care about the wellbeing of their tenants. Isn't that typical?

I'm actually setting boundaries. It took long enough. And, since utilities (gas and electricity) prices are rising at least 400% next month (yes, that's what I said: 400%), I'm using my cafetiere to make my own coffee. A fiver at Starbucks for a cappuccino is ridiculous.

Next week we'll know which of the untrustworthy and incompetent morons will be our next untrustworthy and incompetent prime minister. Oh joy. All this while people are afraid to turn on their heating in the winter because they can't afford it. 

What do I think of the candidates for the thankless job that was left by the useless and incompetent Boris Johnson? About the same as I thought of him. So I'll let you know the verdict next week. No doubt we will get the government we deserve (and God help us).

From the frying pan into the fire: here comes another Covid booster...

 OMG, another booster! I must be a glutton for punishment. This one isn't actually a "booster". It's a full-sized, tortuous Covid shot. That's another five days of staying in bed, feeling like I'm dying of some dreaded disease that has no name (actually, the name is Pfizer), shaking myself into pieces, and wondering if I'm going to survive this one, this time. Lucky? Maybe.

This will be vaccine number 5. That's what I said: 5. I've been putting it off since June, and I got severely told off by the immunology team for delaying something that is very, very vital. So they tell me. This is what happens when you're born with a defective immune system: everyone seems to be coming at you from every different direction.

Well...if this one on Friday is as bad as the four previous ones, you won't hear from me until next week. I'll spend a few days crying, throwing up, and generally being very cranky.

I thought that I was the only person who had a severe reaction. I call five days of being totally incapacitated a "severe reaction". But-not so. I made it my business to talk to as many Covid vaccination veterans as I could, and discovered that, although some lucky souls only had a headache for a day, others had as terrible a reaction as I had. Not very much comfort, I have to add; misery doesn't always love company.

Just for the record-from what I've been told and from what I discovered by investigating thoroughly-the Astra Zeneca vaccine is the worst for nasty aftereffects. People got really, really sick-for days-and the vaccine, while okay, was never the best and most effective anyway. The best and most effective is the Pfizer-but it also kept me bedbound for five days each time, so I'm a bit disgruntled. Still-it's better than risk dying of Covid. And people are still dying. 

One of my neighbors-called Lorna-is this horrible, nasty gossip who also pretends to be a very religious woman. All the hail marys in the world won't stop her from going to hell, that's for sure. She's been going around the area telling anyone who will listen (that's basically nobody) That this is biblical. Covid, long Covid, monkeypox, the state of the economy, the state of the world-we're all going to Hell, she says.

I said-yesterday, when she cornered me-that she'll be the first one to go. As for me, I said:

You go to Hell, Lorna. Me, I'm going to Starbucks.

See you next week...

London Broil: Baked, fried, microwaved, roasted or sautéed?

 I used to say that it's hard to hit a moving target. Well-hard, difficult, but not impossible. Try 104F and see how easy it is when your target is fried to a crisp. Since the ghastly, miserable heatwave of a couple of weeks ago hit us without warning, it's been difficult to do anything except sit in front of the fan and sweat. 

It's been a month like that-hot, sweaty, uncomfortable, and I've been feeling like a salmon swimming upstream. You swim, swim, swim-like your life depends on it-and, exhausted, you finally get there, throw yourself over the top, thinking that you are safe at last-and someone eats you for lunch. What a sad end to an illustrious career.

There's no point in rehashing the stories about the disgusting, crooked,  incompetent Boris Johnson - aka Bozo - because everyone has already heard them (in ad nauseum, I might add). And Trump-well, the two of them should be gelded.

There is a point in telling you that when you give someone enough rope and they hang themselves with it, you should do the most intelligent thing-and walk away. I don't even want to think about all the times I didn't do that, and suffered as a result. That's a neat way of saying that I did it again. Arghhh!!!

I've always been a sucker for a sob story. I've also been a sucker for the underdog, even when that dog is an egregious liar who deserves putting down. Well-here goes, slap me later.

If you've been with me for awhile, you know the story of Terry the psycho bin thief. Terry steals things that don't belong to him: recycling bins (no, I don't know why, either. Maybe he sleeps with them. God knows that he's so ugly, no woman who isn't blind would even pay him the slightest bit of attention). Well-Terry has been on the rampage for a few months. And Rob, someone who offended me three years ago and whom I've ignored ever since, came to me (yet again, like he did three years ago) to ask for my help. So, activist (and occasional idiot) that I am, I jumped right in to sort things out and put things right. Ohhhh, dear-I hear you say-and how did that work out for you? You can guess.

Terry has been threatening people who are in their 80s and 90s-old people who are very frail, and can't stand up for themselves (can barely stand up at all), so I went to war.

It's a good idea to hide all access to emails when I get going. I politely emailed the senior managers at Haringey to let them know what was going on. I got no response. I emailed again. Same thing: nothing. I then stopped being so polite, asking them if they can remember that they are responsible for the health, safety and well-being of all tenants in the borough. Nothing. Then they got the required (to me) number of threatening emails (threatening to go to the police and to the media). Nothing. So I went to both.

It was like lighting a fire under their asses-because they suddenly sent someone to talk to Baster-which they did several times, and which they ignored.

Long story a bit shorter: is there a satisfactory ending to this? Well-yes and no. Next week a  senior manager is coming to talk to all of us, and bringing the antisocial behavior person who spoke to Baster without any luck. And I went to the Housing Ombudsman, who have written to Haringey asking what they are going to do about this hideously longstanding problem.

I will, of course, let you know at the end of next week what-if anything-has happened. I'm not finished yet. There's always Twitter.

So that brings us up to date. My friend back home calls me "London Broil"- more heat to come, but cooler, only in the middle 90s. Still horrible. If I don't keep moving, someone (probably Baster) will stick a skewer in me, baste me, and let me get well done enough to have a nice dinner.

I'll keep you informed. Meanwhile, remember that if someone asks for volunteers-keep your head and your hands down. Never volunteer for anything. Always give people enough rope to hang themselves first. Then decide...