Sent my previous landlords a rent cheque a few weeks ago - the last one, in fact, in a long line of cheques I've been sending them for (a personal record) nine months. The envelope (and the cheque within) got returned to me with no significant action taken such as postmarking the stamp (or indeed, cashing the cheque). No evidence whatsoever to indicate that it had ever left my possession. Or that it was any different than the several other cheques I've had to send over to the nincompoops at the previous landlord's office.
Mysterious you say? Indeed it was.
Although often content to leave mysteries well enough alone (I've seen the films, I know what happens to girls who go nosing around business that isn't their own), somehow I couldn't bring myself to leave this one unsolved. So I took the envelope down to the post-office and put the problem to the lady behind the counter.
She examined the envelope as thoroughly as I'd hoped she would. She looked at it forward and backwards, upside down and right way round. She might even have smelled it. She took it away and brought it back. And in the end, she said 'so why have they sent it back to you?'
To which I replied, incensed and justifiably so I feel, 'I don't know, THAT'S WHAT I JUST ASKED YOU'.
In the end we agreed on sending it as a recorded delivery and no more was said about the mystery of its return.
This incident has left me wondering if, just as Toosy is the keeper of the madness moths, I am the flame to which stupidity moths are drawn.
Monday, July 13, 2009
When our boots they hit the ground...
My, what a busy few weeks it has been.
Despite the best concerted efforts on behalf of all the estate agents I met with to try and keep me from finding a place that ranks even poorly on the habitability scale, I managed to locate and secure one such dwelling and am now cosily unpacked and settled into my very own studio flat in Balham. It shares the approximate dimensions of one of my less roomy shoeboxes, but now that I'm growing accustomed to tripping over my own belongings, the place is definitely starting to feel like home. Plus, blessed as I am with a truly appalling memory, I can't remember what it was like not to live here, which is surely a sign of some deeper sense of calm? In any case, I love the new place, creaky floorboards, tiny shower and all.
Unfortunately Claude did not take so well to his new surroundings and after a mere 3 days in the new homestead I came home to his lifeless little body lying on the bottom of the fishbowl. (If I'd looked closer I'd probably have found a little note saying 'I told you I was ill' but I was too distraught at the time to examine closer.) His absence seems to have affected Eustace's nervous system too, as he now zips around the bowl with a somewhat startled expression every time he hears any sound at all. Fortunately, unlike Claude, Eustace has always been smart enough to know that when food falls your head from the sky, it's best to eat first and ask questions later, so his overall health does not seem to have suffered significantly.
The highlight of the summer so far has been in music festivals, seeing the mighty (Def) Leppard at Download followed swiftly by Bruce himself at Hard Rock Calling a couple of weekends ago. Needless to say, Bruce rocked but for me the real gem of the day (and possibly of this year) has been discovering and seeing live a band called The Gaslight Anthem who have swiftly become one of my all-time favourites. Mixing Springsteen-esque blue collar storylines with punk sensibilities, and throwing in an endearing grin and tattooed (ch)arms, Brian Fallon is seriously vying for a place on my Friends 5 list. I only wonder if Matthew Perry will ever forgive me...
Despite the best concerted efforts on behalf of all the estate agents I met with to try and keep me from finding a place that ranks even poorly on the habitability scale, I managed to locate and secure one such dwelling and am now cosily unpacked and settled into my very own studio flat in Balham. It shares the approximate dimensions of one of my less roomy shoeboxes, but now that I'm growing accustomed to tripping over my own belongings, the place is definitely starting to feel like home. Plus, blessed as I am with a truly appalling memory, I can't remember what it was like not to live here, which is surely a sign of some deeper sense of calm? In any case, I love the new place, creaky floorboards, tiny shower and all.
Unfortunately Claude did not take so well to his new surroundings and after a mere 3 days in the new homestead I came home to his lifeless little body lying on the bottom of the fishbowl. (If I'd looked closer I'd probably have found a little note saying 'I told you I was ill' but I was too distraught at the time to examine closer.) His absence seems to have affected Eustace's nervous system too, as he now zips around the bowl with a somewhat startled expression every time he hears any sound at all. Fortunately, unlike Claude, Eustace has always been smart enough to know that when food falls your head from the sky, it's best to eat first and ask questions later, so his overall health does not seem to have suffered significantly.
The highlight of the summer so far has been in music festivals, seeing the mighty (Def) Leppard at Download followed swiftly by Bruce himself at Hard Rock Calling a couple of weekends ago. Needless to say, Bruce rocked but for me the real gem of the day (and possibly of this year) has been discovering and seeing live a band called The Gaslight Anthem who have swiftly become one of my all-time favourites. Mixing Springsteen-esque blue collar storylines with punk sensibilities, and throwing in an endearing grin and tattooed (ch)arms, Brian Fallon is seriously vying for a place on my Friends 5 list. I only wonder if Matthew Perry will ever forgive me...
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