Date Friday 30 December Time 1.30pm
My thoughts and reflections:
Things can get worse.
I have a horrible hangover, I slept badly in Drunk Stephen’s flatmate’s bed (his numerous Dungeons and Dragons figurines watching over me weren’t conducive to repose), and Aunty Margaret has just called: apparently the new tenant has a life-threatening dust allergy, so I need to make sure the flat has been thoroughly and meticulously cleaned from top to bottom.
When I asked if I should email or text the cleaning bill to her, it emerged she was expecting me to pay it and that it would be a ‘drop in the ocean’ in comparison to the rent I’ve saved for the last six months by living, for free, in her flat.
She was pretty shirty really. I know that technically she has a point, but I’m starting to think I might be aligned with Aziz when it comes to the landed.
I mean, Aunty Margaret has multiple properties and it’s good to share.
Universal fact. (When you have something someone else wants, at least.) Anyway, I decided it was safer not to update her on the rat situation.
When I told Mum that I was feeling rather like Sara from A Little Princess , Mum was incredibly unsympathetic, saying that it was time I started to appreciate the value of money; she clearly doesn’t know me at all because I absolutely appreciate the value of nice things.
That’s precisely why I find it hard when I have to work with Chloe from Sales with her little Michael Kors cross-body bag and her Pandora bracelet dripping with charms and why I’m friends with Drunk Stephen despite his appalling rudeness because he has impeccable taste in shoes: he also appreciates the value of nice things.
But Mum is not going to understand that.
Not when she hangs out with people like Sue from next door who has black gravel.
At least Mum did let it drop that Aunty Margaret is particularly bad-tempered at the moment because she has a painful cut on the septum from the nasal hair trimmers Uncle Ted bought her for Christmas, which according to Aunty Margaret’s GP, should have come with a safety warning. Bloody hell. Who would want to be a GP?
Still, at least now things can’t get any worse. Surely.
I am letting go of:
Getting my nails done for New Year’s Eve – Drunk Stephen says I’ll be looking at ￡180 plus VAT for the rats! Fucking outrageous.