Festive greetings from @Limerabbit44

 I dipped my toe into the Twitter water-after years of staying away. But hey, If Musk is allowing anyone and everyone to be a card-carrying Twit-might as well join the party.

Whether I did the right thing is a matter of debate. But I posted twice, and nobody seems to have noticed. So I wonder if I'm supposed to let everyone I know that I'm now on Twitter? I did tell you that I'm brand new at this. I can say that I've got a friend who works for the council, and when I told her that I wrote Terry Baster's address-Lorna Shannon's too- my friend nearly fainted. She's afraid for me. So now I'm afraid for me. And I'm so fed up with the idiots and crazies that I've decided to move back up the hill to the area I lived in before. Much nicer and more stable people, too. I know it's London, but nevertheless...

I'm keeping track of the psycho Baster and his equally psycho group of bottom feeders, though. I know some of the tenants for years, I've seen what these cowardly bullies have done to them, so I told them to keep me informed. As they keep me informed, I'll keep you informed. My hope for the really decent people I met who just want to live out the rest of their lives in peace and quiet is that someone will pay the bottom feeding low lifes a visit and tell them to leave everyone else alone. I'm not advocating violence, but...how would you feel if it was your granny or granddad being threatened (especially if they're in their 90s)? Hmmm. You see my dilemma. 

I did find that on Twitter there are people who post just anything. So I'm navigating to see if there's anything interesting. Like I said: at the moment I'm just a toe-dipper.

I hope that everyone had a terrific Thanksgiving. I did an epic eight mile route march on Wednesday, searching in vain for a turkey. They don't come out until December (Thanksgiving is our holiday, after all). I found a chicken that looked like it had died of old age-so I decided to have a deli chicken from Marks & Spencer. I waved my hand over it and pronounced it a turkey (of course I'm only joking. Maybe). A trad Thanksgiving (but with chicken), and it was quiet but very lovely. I contacted all my friends and family and spent most of the day on the phone-and Zoom- and eating. 

The run-up to Christmas is something I've always found difficult. My friends echo this sentiment. My one friend would have had a big anniversary on Christmas Day, and I decided to file for a divorce just before Christmas-but wait to drop the bombshell until after it was over. Ewww-I should have just done it at the time.

I'm trying very hard to focus on all the things I've got, not the mistakes I've made or the time I've wasted. There will be more about that later-we've got three weeks until Christmas Day, so there's time to ruminate, be very pissed off, and get over it. 

So, until next time (which hopefully will be sooner rather than later), I'm going to nose around and find what I can buy as a Christmas present. For myself. 

A neophyte twit

I decided some time ago that I was going to put the names of the bullies who are wrecking people's lives on Twitter. Did I do that? Well...no, I didn't. And now I hope that it isn't too late. 

I've got a Twitter account (miracles do happen!). As of this morning, I'm @Limerabbit44

Will this work? I've got no idea-but Thursday is Thanksgiving, so let me wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving. It's a busy week for me, so I'm doing this early.

I'll be checking out Twitter later. Right now, I just wanted to join. Who knew?

I've also decided to put the really evil, malevolent, vicious gossips in my area and relegate them to the dustbin (garbage can). It's where they belong, after all.

Here's something that is profoundly interesting (to me, anyway). I could easily waste more of my time by going to the next useless committee meeting and telling them what I think of them. That wouldn't take long, but just because I can (I'd have to speak very slowly and use very small words), it doesn't mean that I should. 

I struggled with all this-payback, if you will-but it would be unnecessary and unhelpful. Because Baster is violent anyway, I'd be risking my neck telling these useless, malevolent cretins off. So I decided that it would be going in one ear and out the other-because there's nothing in between to stop it.

Another reason to be thankful - and I've got many, when I actually think about it - is that, when I stop and think rather than just reacting - wisdom takes over.

Like I said: just because I could easily annihilate them all with words, it doesn't mean that I have to. Blank them. Block their phone numbers (already done). Imagine that they don't exist.

Now here's an idea that comes from a friend of mine (too bad I didn't think of it years ago):

If you've ever been close to a camel - real life, not virtually - you will have been treated to the huge piles of camel dung and the accompanying horrendous, vomit-inducing stench. It' bad enough to make your eyes water and make you heave.

Camel dung is the food choice of maggots and blowflies. It doesn't really serve any other purpose, as far as I know. So I've told some of the older residents who have been offended or abused or threatened by Terry Baster (and his son) and Lorna Shannon-and their enabler, Sandy Pavlov, who encourages them - to do the following:

When they pass their flats, or see them, or hear them (hearing is the easy part. Baster and Shannon are so loud that they could wake the dead in Highgate Cemetery), just imagine that you're passing huge, stinking piles of camel dung. And hold your breath and keep moving.

Maybe that sounds gross, but I've been told by the older targets (older meaning in their 80s and 90s) that it really does work. It also makes them laugh.

So there you go. If people plague you, try the camel dung exercise. You'll not only have a really good laugh-you'll be doing breathing exercises, too.

Happy Thanksgiving, if I don't get back here before Thursday.

Trumpty Dumpty sat on a wall...

 I wish  I'd thought that one up. I think that it is hilarious. But no-my friend in New York emailed me to say that one of the newspapers had this as its headline. Only the Trumpty Dumpty part. I added the rest. Didn't he fall flat on his posterior!! Not far enough, sadly. 

It has been that kind of a week-or two. First, Election Day, when everyone here (and home) was terribly worried that the media would be right, in gleefully predicting that the Democrats would be annihilated in the midterm elections. So much for their powers of clairvoyance. And a big sigh for me, because we at least won the Senate. So people here who deride Americans (mainly because of Trump) can eat their words. Their credibility went down the crapper (a good, descriptive British colloquial term) with Liz Truss, who managed to severely mangle the UK economy in just 49 days. That must be a record. 

We've had a huge amount of rain since I last wrote-and the resulting vertigo made me realize just how much I have to go before I can regain some sense of a balance system. I say that I can; the neurologists say that I've come as far as I possibly can, and that I've done really well to get this far. Sure; it's only taken me 12 1/2 years. Maybe I'm completely bonkers to even contemplate any further recovery-but perhaps I'm either a pessimistic optimist or an optimistic pessimist. I truly believe that I can do more. I'll let you know, that's for sure.

Somehow-somewhere-lurks a suspicion (even if it could be wishful thinking) that scientists don't know enough about the human brain to be able to definitively say that there's no way back from vestibular destruction. Okay, the entire mechanism was destroyed (thanks, Barts) but who is to say that other parts of the brain aren't able to take over and deliver something resembling a healthy vestibular system? All the specialists are telling me that it's impossible. And I won't have it. Very few things are impossible.

I saw my immunologist on Wednesday. If you've been following this for awhile, you'll know that I've got hereditary CVID. So I was born without a functioning immune system. And if someone somewhere hadn't done the research to discover that regular infusions of antibodies (antibody replacement) will provide a baseline immune system (baseline. Not fully functional) and that patients can live longer. 

My point? My doc told me that I'm somewhat of a walking miracle, considering all the physical things that have gone wrong in my life. I said that I'm too obstinate to just roll over and expire. Not my time yet. And if I can successfully beat the odds and still keep going, so can anyone else. 

Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. I'll be celebrating. Once I stop moaning and groaning about things that I can't change (like the climate, and Ukraine, and the cost of living crisis that we're all in the middle of experiencing), I'm mentally making a list of the things about which I can be very, very grateful. Who knew that this list would be far longer than the other one?

When your get up and go has got up and gone

 Okay, I know that it's not grammatically correct-but I live over here, and nobody will ever know the difference...

Have I been busy since I last wrote? Yes, I certainly have-I don't give up without a fight. And I knew that a fight was necessary. I sat and read the caution letter several times, and I highlighted all the ridiculous accusations that made no sense. I then photographed all six pages on my phone and sent them to the Ombudsman. Then I called the Ombudsman. And waited. And waited. A lot of other people must have been complaining.

I'm waiting for notification that a case handler has been assigned. Apparently, the law changed on October 1, and anyone can complain without waiting the eight week cooling off period. And Haringey has so many black marks against them that nobody was surprised to read my complaint. But-and there is a "but"-the Ombudsman service is only there to mediate, not to make anything other than suggestions to the landlord. But-again-when the landlord comes back and refuses to make the changes that are strongly suggested by the Ombudsman, the landlord gets a black mark against them-and it's made public. As if Haringey cares.

I then rang our local councillor and told him what was going on. I emailed him the six page letter. I've been busy emailing-and calling-and threatening a lawsuit. And then I complained to the Haringey complaints department. This is another useless exercise, because complaints never get either answered or handled. They're usually ignored.

I did say that I've been busy. If I don't get any answers from anyone, I will contact the press for help. It'll be the local newspapers, since the big national ones are busy dealing with the fallout from the useless Liz Truss's resignation. 

I went into my local Waitrose to do my shopping; I was met with some very long faces. All the prices have gone up astronomically, just as the utilities (gas and electricity) have shot up. Every borough now has places where people can go to get warm, and to get a free cup of tea, and to meet and commiserate. It's so sad that this is happening in a so-called civilized country. 

I had printed out a small sign which I taped on the shelf over the vegetables-over the lettuce, actually. It read "Guaranteed to last longer than Liz Truss". I stuck it on, having looked first to make sure that nobody saw me. Then I slowly walked away.

Well! People kept coming over to read the sign, and there was a lot of laughter as shoppers looked around to see who put it there. When I chuckled over it and went to the self-service till to pay my bill, I found that the manager was standing right behind me. Uh-oh?

I've been shopping there for more than ten years, and many of the people who work there see a friendly face-and know their customers. I looked at him, he looked at me-and he said "That is so funny that I told the staff to keep it there and not take it down". 

How about that? There are Brits who have a sense of humor. In this current economic freefall, humor isn't so easy to come by. 

Every country seems to be affected-not just by Ukraine, but by everything from climate change to the Supreme Court deciding that women have no say over our own bodies. Next thing they'll do is target same sex marriages. Then it's women's right to vote. Trump won't be happy until he changes the country from a democracy to an autocracy, and takes us back 200 years, 

The man should be in prison.

It'll be very interesting to see what happens over the next few months. That's assuming that we all live that long, and that Putin doesn't start a nuclear war. Meanwhile, I'll sit here and consider what to do to right the injustices of the past few months-in my own territory. 

Never let it be said that punitive behavior doesn't exist; I've now been threatened with eviction

 And here I had a week away from all the stresses, aggravation, threats, moaning, whingeing... I thought that I was doing the right thing by constantly emailing (and occasionally threatening) the council about the lack of response to everything that Baster (aka Monkey Pox. Forever) was doing to everyone. I stuck my head above the parapet-and now I'm in danger of losing my head after all. Nobody would ever make this up.

I went off to Kent for a week of peace and quiet. No television, no radio, virtually no internet access-it was so quiet and peaceful, I wasn't happy about returning yesterday afternoon. Even when it rained (every day) I found a time to do some walking. Small village. A lot of hairdressers (!), but no greengrocers or fruit shops of any description. They had a large Tesco, so that was where I bought a few things. And that was it. Pubs-yes. Distractions? Not really. And three churches-three! go figure...

I returned to find a letter from some halfwit who calls herself a "resident liaison officer"- another council halfwit who couldn't liaise her way around a public toilet. That ended peace and really infuriated me.

This moron is called Hyacinth Simms-I keep calling her Hyacinth Bucket, after a pretentious character in a sitcom that was popular long before I came to this country. I never saw it-only the name made me laugh. Bucket doesn't make me laugh.

So Bucket sent me a six page diatribe filled with scurrilous lies, inaccuracies, misinformation, and basic bullshit. She formally threatened me with eviction-subject to statements from-if you immediately said Monkey Pox, you're right. And Shannon, his pal who lives downstairs and who-I've got absolutely no doubt-was responsible (with  Pox) for the oil on the stair and the cleanup afterwards. No proof-no witnesses-no chance of doing anything about it. Now is when I wish I knew some thugs to do it for me. And the third cretin who complained is Sandra Pavlou, who lives next to Robert, the person with whom I am collaborating on attenpts to get Baster moved elsewhere. Anywhere. 

I never had an issue with Pavlou. I haven't spoken with her, or seen her, or interacted with her in any way. We live at opposite ends of the estate, so we just never seemed to see each other. But she's hooked up with Baster-and he calls her his only family. The two of them are conjoined. Add Shannon, who is just as close (what a scary, revolting idea), and Baster's son, who is from Sweden and now lives with daddy-and you've got people who will say anything to discredit someone who has consistently reported them. Formally.

So, the question: am I going to do anything about this? Ahhhh-you know the answer. I reported the council for incompetence to the housing ombudsman and the local councillor before I left. And now I'm going to report Hyacinth Simms to the corporate complaints department. This will, of course, do nothing, as all complaints are probably thrown in a bin somewhere. But I'll be contacting the Ombudsman to offer the latest development, since Simms never contacted me and is clearly getting even for my calling her incompetent. 

Robert, who is the person I've been trying to help and support in all this-since June this year, when I stupidly agreed to help-is making noises about continuing in his quest to get Monkey Pox sanctioned- but now is backing off since I told him about the eviction threat. And that's what I get for trying to help someone who also can't be trusted.

I'm sensing a pattern? They can't evict me, by the way, because the "evidence" is spurious, and would never hold up in court. And they won't want me to take them to court.

I rang a tenancy manager yesterday afternoon-she actually answered the phone-bet she wished she hadn't- and she said that she knew nothing about this. She's Bucket's boss, by the way. I said that they'd better be ready for legal action-because I'll get them for libel, slander, defamation of character, and a whole list of other things that will make really interesting reading for the newspapers.

They do not want to mess with me. They're messing with the wrong person. Because now I won't stop until they put the situation right. I mean: I'll go public. And I will get even.

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.