Home sweet home (or so they say)
We are having troubles everywhere, it seems. And sometimes I just wonder if the best solution couldn't simply be that of staying here and not looking anywhere else, just waiting, because if you let things go something happens, sooner or later. Then again, this has never been my attitude, because I get angry and discover a very determinate part of me, a part that screams and gets all red and finds the right words to say at the right time. This doesn't happen when I am being bullied in a foreign language, no matter how well I can speak it (to understand this, I should obviously type and attach the second part of the journey to the UK, and honestly, I cannot find the moral strength to do it).
Anyway, burocracy...it never helps. It's never used with those who should be "persecuted", so to speak, and it's used one time too many with the poor ones who have always respected the rules. This is a weak metaphor to say: US.
When it comes to these matters (or to the time when my brother screwed up my computer and deleted almost all my files, or to the time when I was bullied in Covent Garden...) I always think that I shouldn't write about it, because my memory is good enough, and particularly when it is something bad: I remember perfectly every awful moment of my life, and I definitely don't need to write them down to keep them more vividly! Then at the same time it looks somehow important to take note of all the steep roads we are following, because when we get to the top we can look back and see everything and feel the beautiful sensation of having made it, of having accomplished something good - or important, or whatever. So I guess I should talk about having nasty neighbours.
Ok, here it is: our neighbours do not want to sign a paper and let us do all the works that we want to do with our house. Which would become our houses once we're done, and which would especially become MY - OWN - PRIVATE - INDEPENDENT - APARTMENT. Or flat, if you want to be British. The thing with these neighbours is: they don't even share a wall with us. They are a whole terraced house away from us; their door is even on another street! To get to our garden, they should cross our real-neighbour's garden! And now, the flat belongs to their niece, who wants to respect their wish of not signing the paper, even though the flat is now rented to a bunch of formerly-noisy-now-quiet guys because the real owners are living downtown...So they're not even here anymore.
Still, there is no signature on the damned piece of paper. And the question would now be: WHY?
Guess what: there is no reason whatsoever. They just can't be bothered to let us do what we like with a house that has been ours for twenty years now, and which will be ours until we are all dead, because we don't have money to move anywhere else, and why should we when it is such a nice and silent place to live? (A-hem: nice - correct; silent...well...when you have five dogs around the neighbourhood and lots of random dogs who come and visit them...well...not that silent anymore. But the topic of dogs with neighbours is entirely another planet to be explored later on, when I feel in the mood for condemning people to death).
To pull all the strings now, what I mean is: we are looking for an escamotage, and we have almost found it. So, screw the senile neighbours! (excuse my French...).
The house will be made almost from scratch, and I will have MY OWN PRIVATE INDEPENDENT APARTMENT OR FLAT IF YOU WANT TO BE BRITISH by the end of next year, which is an incredibly long time if you think of it, but nothing compared to eternity, so they say. And in any case, the good side of the story is that this way I get to save more money when it's time to pay the first instalments of...everything. Because I will pay for the roof being remade (the house is going to become three apartments, one of which - mine - by throwing away the roof, lifting the walls, and putting a new roof), for the floor, the furniture...Oh, the furniture!!!
This is the moment when I start being delirious about armchairs and kitchens, and beds and wardrobes, and chairs and mirrors and...you get the point. I am spending most of my bed time (i.e., the thirty seconds to five minutes before I fall unconscious for 8/9 hours) thinking about colours and textiles and frames, etc. It feels as if I am already there. So, I am glad I have this job so I am so busy that I don't have time to daydream too much about things that are so far away.
But fingers crossed...
Anyway, burocracy...it never helps. It's never used with those who should be "persecuted", so to speak, and it's used one time too many with the poor ones who have always respected the rules. This is a weak metaphor to say: US.
When it comes to these matters (or to the time when my brother screwed up my computer and deleted almost all my files, or to the time when I was bullied in Covent Garden...) I always think that I shouldn't write about it, because my memory is good enough, and particularly when it is something bad: I remember perfectly every awful moment of my life, and I definitely don't need to write them down to keep them more vividly! Then at the same time it looks somehow important to take note of all the steep roads we are following, because when we get to the top we can look back and see everything and feel the beautiful sensation of having made it, of having accomplished something good - or important, or whatever. So I guess I should talk about having nasty neighbours.
Ok, here it is: our neighbours do not want to sign a paper and let us do all the works that we want to do with our house. Which would become our houses once we're done, and which would especially become MY - OWN - PRIVATE - INDEPENDENT - APARTMENT. Or flat, if you want to be British. The thing with these neighbours is: they don't even share a wall with us. They are a whole terraced house away from us; their door is even on another street! To get to our garden, they should cross our real-neighbour's garden! And now, the flat belongs to their niece, who wants to respect their wish of not signing the paper, even though the flat is now rented to a bunch of formerly-noisy-now-quiet guys because the real owners are living downtown...So they're not even here anymore.
Still, there is no signature on the damned piece of paper. And the question would now be: WHY?
Guess what: there is no reason whatsoever. They just can't be bothered to let us do what we like with a house that has been ours for twenty years now, and which will be ours until we are all dead, because we don't have money to move anywhere else, and why should we when it is such a nice and silent place to live? (A-hem: nice - correct; silent...well...when you have five dogs around the neighbourhood and lots of random dogs who come and visit them...well...not that silent anymore. But the topic of dogs with neighbours is entirely another planet to be explored later on, when I feel in the mood for condemning people to death).
To pull all the strings now, what I mean is: we are looking for an escamotage, and we have almost found it. So, screw the senile neighbours! (excuse my French...).
The house will be made almost from scratch, and I will have MY OWN PRIVATE INDEPENDENT APARTMENT OR FLAT IF YOU WANT TO BE BRITISH by the end of next year, which is an incredibly long time if you think of it, but nothing compared to eternity, so they say. And in any case, the good side of the story is that this way I get to save more money when it's time to pay the first instalments of...everything. Because I will pay for the roof being remade (the house is going to become three apartments, one of which - mine - by throwing away the roof, lifting the walls, and putting a new roof), for the floor, the furniture...Oh, the furniture!!!
This is the moment when I start being delirious about armchairs and kitchens, and beds and wardrobes, and chairs and mirrors and...you get the point. I am spending most of my bed time (i.e., the thirty seconds to five minutes before I fall unconscious for 8/9 hours) thinking about colours and textiles and frames, etc. It feels as if I am already there. So, I am glad I have this job so I am so busy that I don't have time to daydream too much about things that are so far away.
But fingers crossed...
posted by Peggy @ 1:54 PM
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