About that...

First off, you know when I said hopefully it'd wouldn't be six months before I wrote again? Yeah, oops. Sorry about that. Secondly, you remember how I said that Adam and I probably wouldn't buy a house. Yeah, we did. I've been regretting that decision fairly regularly over the last couple of months we've lived here, but I do still love it. I feel almost adult-like for owning a home.

Part of why I haven't posted for so long--beyond the laziness, of course--is because we were without a regular internet connection from the day we fully moved (28th of August; we took possession August 15th) until October 1st. I'm still so unbelievably angry about the multitude of fuck-ups that caused that to happen that I don't want to write about it, but we were supposed to be connected on September 4th. The only good thing to come out of it is that we've got 5 free months from the company.

Beyond the laziness and lack of internet there's been the dealing with the house. Turns out the previous owner was a lying son of a bitch, which, while not uncommon, is frustrating and has cost us (and by us, I mean the awesome relatives who have bought us housewarming presents) nearly £1500 so far. And it's not done yet. Our solicitor (who happens to be a co-worker's mother, a mistake I will not make again), so far as I can tell, did not even do the most basic aspects of the job for which we paid her. So far as we can tell, the damp that was found by the inspector in the new house (a key reason why we wanted to move out of the Lewisham Road flat) won't be covered by the damp-proofing guarantee because that wall was not treated. Of course we chose to purchase the house knowing about this, because we were told there was a guarantee, and we asked our solicitor to send us a copy of that so that we could confirm that we could have it repaired under the guarantee (i.e. not out of our pocket). But instead of sending us the full details at that time, we just got the page of the guarantee. Not, you know, a copy of the work that was done, which we received about 3 weeks after we moved in. Awesome. Now I have to ask an ombudsman if we have some kind of case against our solicitor, and might possibly be suing our solicitor for gross incompetence. She also couldn't tell us who owns the plot of land next to us. Adam and I found that information, along with the date of sale, in the same pile of paperwork that included the specifics of the damp-proofing. Did I mention it's my co-worker's mother?

There are pictures of the house, many, MANY pictures, but I have to get them off the tablet to share them. Since we still have large quantities of boxes in the house, that's easier said than done since I can't find the SD card adaptor, but I just managed to guilt-trip myself into finding an alternate (and in fact easier) way to get them onto my computer, so I'll post those separately.

As for the regrets of buying, it's not the costs of replacing all the shit that lying Simon said worked (the dishwasher, the cooker, basically any kitchen appliance), or even the incompetence of our solicitor, but, once again, our neighbours. Always the neighbours. Woo. We live in a back-to-back end-terrace, which for my British friends, probably makes sense, but is rather incomprensible to those who live in a society where duplexes aren't that common. Row, or terraced, housing means a string of homes that are all part of one building. Generally, they go all the way through the property, so you have both front and back walls of the house, but your side walls are shared with a neighbour. Like a duplex or a triplex, but usually quite a few more than that. End-terraced homes are more expensive, because they only share one wall. But because ours is a back-to-back, we actually don't go all the way through, and we have two shared walls (it's a very bizarre row). We also have no garden/yard, which is fine, but will make it more difficult when we get a dog (for we WILL get a dog. Or two.).

The neighbour on the side seems to be a single mother with a 4-5 year old. Her preferred method of parenting is to scream at her child. Constantly. Also, she tries to reason with the child, as in she tries to use logic to win arguments. With a 4-5 year old. Because that'll work even better than screaming. The kid is probably a little shithead, but anyone would be if they're constantly screamed at by their mother. It's some of the worst parenting I can imagine short of physically harming a child.

The neighbours on the back side are big on shouting as well, but that's mostly because their music is turned up so loudly that they have to shout to be heard. This applies also when the music isn't on, since it's clearly made them deaf. Also, they listen to club music. That's it. Bad dance music, never anything else. And they watch Family Guy quite loudly in what we think is their bedroom (anyway, it's next to our bedroom, and since the homes should be roughly mirrored, it would make sense). Also, they seem to think it's ok to blast music and have stupidly loud--and just stupid--and drunk people around until well after 2am. Yes, it may be the weekend, but some of us have to be in to work by 7am some weekends. Touch wood, that seems to have lessened a bit, but we'll see.

The good news is that the neighbours on the other side of screamy mum are pretty cool. Will and Rachel (I might be making their names up a bit) are very nice, come into work all the time because they like the Bakery, and Will is a brewer (complete with awesome red beard). He actually brews for a living, when he's not setting up new breweries or organizing some of the awesome local-ish beer festivals (including the fairly major Indy Man, and he also helped start up Port Street Beer House in Manchester, which Adam and I love). He told us about one that he just set up in Leeds, and Adam and I went to it and had a blast. So Will's ok, and Rachel seems lovely (she doesn't come in as often; I think she has a real job), and their dog is quietly cute. Good people. We hope to get to know them better, and hope they like board games!

I should go shower. I am dusty from working in a bakery, and tired from making 14 cakes and a double batch of sablé dough today. As a sidenote, that's not a cake record for me. Also, that's not as much as it sounds, since I only made 5 types. I've done more and more variety, but I'm not feeling well today, so I'm rather impressed I got that many. Though if a pan hadn't gone missing, I would have made 15 cakes, 3 each of 5 varieties. As it stands, I made 3 Apple and Olive Oil, 3 Tunisian Orange and Almond, 3 Chocolate Guinness, 3 Kladdakaka (gooey Swedish chocolate torte), and 2 ginger loaves (don't know where the third pan went). Over the course of the week, at least 2 more cakes will be made (baked Polish cheesecake, which I hate making), and probably another batch of ginger cakes. Lemon cake may also be made, and I might suck it up and try to harvest a bit more rhubarb for another couple of Rhubarb Polenta cakes. In theory, all those cakes should be cut into 10, and yes, we sell all of those cakes in a week. Pretty cool, really.

Photos tomorrow, I hope. It's late.

So...

It's been a while, and I have limited excuses. There's a lot I'd like to write about, much of it I can't/won't (work), and a lot of it is simply long past. I do wish I could write about work, since that's the stuff I could make funny, but sadly, I can't. So instead, I'll just write for a while, working backwards.

First off, we have new neighbors. The previous girls moved out around Thanksgiving because they wanted to live in a bigger, less cold, and generally less shitty place. While we don't blame them, they were awesome and we miss them (Ash does casual work at the greengrocers, so I still see her fairly regularly, but they were great neighbors, and I can't stress that enough). The new neighbors moved in about a month ago, and I called the police on them Saturday/Sunday. Yup. That was good times. The clocks moved forward, and I was dead asleep (Adam wasn't–he was just nodding off) in preparation for a 9am shift on Sunday, when I was awoken by screaming. Screaming that included the phrases "Get away from me!", "Don't touch me!", and "I hate you! Get out!"

Lovely. So I called emergency services, because a) she could have been raped and b) it was fucking 3am and I was asleep. Adam and I went though similar things with the neighbors prior to the girls, but at no time did that sound like potential sexual assault/rape, just your run-of-the-mill domestic argument. He stopped me from calling then, but not this time. Again, there was the rape factor (which I was so tired I didn't pick up on, nor did I want to, but Adam did), but they're also new and I want to send a message that this is not acceptable–either the noise or the assault.

Added bonus/weirdness: I have no idea what they look like, or even how many people live there.

What else? Oh yeah, I'm working "full time" now (32 hours/week) at the bakery. One of our directors (full time) left at the end of January, and one of the probationary directors hired last summer decided to leave at Christmas, so that opened up two slots, and they offered me one of them (I did apply). So 4 days a week I work in the café, either cooking or doing barista work and serving the public. I love it, though it can be frustrating for a variety of reasons (most of which shouldn't be public). Still, I really do enjoy it, and it's particularly nice to be working basically full time for the first time since I quit Ticor to get my MA. Taking the cleaning job there did pay off, which makes me smile.

Girl Museum is also going well (www.girlmuseum.org–go check it out), and I'm still loving working with them, too. Not much to say about it, other than check it out (new site last fall!).

Christmas was good; we spent it with the in-laws, and the Bakery closes for a week so it was very relaxing for me, and Adam's work was closed for most of that time as well, so it was nice for him, too. We didn't have a party for New Year's which was extra relaxing for me (lots of people and small spaces are very emotionally stressful and anxiety inducing). Instead, we just had a nice meal, played board games, and watched the UK equivalent of the ball drop (shit blowing up over Westminster). I really am so lame that it was a really fun night and much better than a party.

I could keep going backwards, but I'm bored, so instead I'll discuss current events. Adam and I are looking at houses to buy. We probably won't, since we want to move and buying a house will essentially tie us to staying (we could sell in a couple of years, but...), but it's fun to look, especially since we can get a pretty decent mortgage now with the combined salaries (and an even better one in a few months; if/after I'm made a director my salary will go up).

We're going to a wedding in early May, so after 5 years in the country I'll finally get to see Essex. Yay? Better though, is that we'll get to see our friends Matthew and Ami, and watch Matt and Claire get married, which will be awesome (provided Matt isn't struck down by lightning in the church, since he's an athiest). It should prove to be a fun weekend, and nice to get away, even if it'll be a bit of a whirlwind.

Lastly, Saturday is both the Grand National and International TableTop Day, so be sure to put some money on the ponies and play more (board) games!

Here's hoping it won't be another 6+ months before I post again!

The plot thickens

So...the fire was arson. At least the police are looking for an arsonist. But it gets better. There was also a fire in Linthwaite, at another old mill site. If I'm correct, that would be the site being considered for a Tesco Express.

So the question is, who is setting these fires? The developers, who want to make it more likely to get approval, because there is nothing left to preserve, and no (longer) bats in the buildings?* The people opposed to the stores going in,** who think this will somehow hurt the developers (nope, makes their job easier)? Stupid kids setting fires? That's happened before, but not usually 2 major fires within twelve hours of each other.

So yes, long on theories and conspiracies, but short on actual evidence. I'll be honest and say that I hope it was the developers who put someone up to it, because then they'll a) go to jail, and b) will most likely have their application denied. Still, the developers seemed evil, but not stupid.

*Bats are a protected species in the UK, and if they are found living in a building, that building cannot be torn down/renovated unless permission is granted to have what is essentially a bat-removal specialist come in and relocate that bats. Yes, bats get a higher priority than people, which I think is awesome.

**As a sidenote, while I'm opposed to the Aldi in Slathwaite, but not to a Tesco Express in Linthwaite, because the only businesses in Linthwaite are takeaways, a Premier–basically a quikie-mart–and a Co-op, which is essentially a glorified quickie-mart. Slathwaite actually has real businesses: a butcher's, a pharmacy, an optitian, a mens' wear shop, a green grocer, a newsagent, a couple of shops that sell "stuff," a hairdresser, a bakery, an antique shop, an independently-owned quickie mart, and several cafés, all off the top of my head. We also have a Co-op, which is somewhat better than the one in Linthwaite, if not much.

Rampant Speculation

So there's a fire basically down the street from us. I went out to gawk because it looked like it could have been a) close enough to make me want to start packing up the important items (which is everything, but you know) or b) it could have been the bakery.

Thankfully, it's neither--so far--but the location is quite interesting. Unless you're local, you probably don't know that Aldi (a third rate "supermarket") is trying to get a site here in Slaithwaite. Unfortunately for them, EVERYONE in the village is opposed to it. And I do mean everyone. I haven't spoken to a single person who wants it or thinks it'll be good for the village (the money it brings in won't stay local, unlike the local shops, which will potentially face closing). Perhaps if it were a Sainsbury's, which actually stocks quality stuff, people wouldn't be so opposed to the notion, but Aldis are not unlike a large Quik-E-Mart in all ways except the slushie machine. Unfortunately, no one in the village knows how Kirklees (our local council) will respond, though we're all hoping that they'll listen to those of us who have to live with it. We have raised some compelling concerns beyond "Aldi sucks."*

Anyway, all that to say that the site Aldi has asked for planning permission is currently burning down. They were going to have to demolish half the stuff on the site anyway, but some of the site has listed buildings and the like, so it was all very confusing.

But now it's burning. And I have to wonder if a) it's arson and b) if it is, was it started by ai) the developer or bi) someone opposed to to the development.

In other news, I like listing lists within lists. List list list.

So yes, very interesting. I don't know if this will help or hurt either side, though I imagine it will at least slow down the planning permission application process. However, if it's approved, it will speed up the building.

The only thing I do know is that neither Adam nor I started the fire. How do I know this? Because it's blazing like a mofo, and neither of us can build fires worth shit.** When I went out to check about 40 minutes ago, it didn't look like the firefighters were even approaching it, and at least one entire building was engulfed. So it's definitely big. I'll go back out in a bit, and I'll post more if I find out more, but at the moment, I'm betting arson. By, who, though, that's the question.

*We've raised that, too, but were told that it wasn't a valid argument.

**This could be a problem should the apocolypse come.

Get off my lawn!*

I'm not unlike the crotchety old geezer who stares out his front window, shouting at birds and children.** It's an absolutely glorious and sunny day, and though snow is supposedly predicted for Thursday and Saturday (apparently Friday doesn't exist), it's a positively tropical 13.3º C in the house*** and I haven't even put the heat on (yet. I do have laundry to dry). It's almost not frigid outside (7º C), and because Slaithwaite is so picturesque you could vomit, it's pretty perfect.

But I'm grumpy. It appears to be mid-term. Every mouth-breather who thought it was their unalienable right to breed has done so multiple times, and their children are not caged up at school like they should be. Since most of these people appear to be unemployed**** that means annoying family herds are meandering down the sidewalks, stopping and getting in my way. They're feeding the ducks, who are shitting everywhere, walking along the canal ensuring that I can't get past, and generally being obnoxious. They're shrieking and laughing and being loud and happy, and those that aren't are talking on the phone outside my window. And when I'm not getting hit by noise pollution, the smokers are out there, hitting me with toxic crap that I don't want fouling my lungs or stinking up my home.

A lot of people accuse the US of giving kids too much time off from school, and since the summer hols are about 3 months long, I used to agree (yes, even as a student). Until I discovered that my mother-in-law (who works in a school) was home on holiday for a week or more at a time every 6 weeks or so, and the summer hols are 6-8 weeks. I'd like to say I'm exaggerating, but I'm pretty sure I'm not; British kids are off from school at least as much as American kids, it's just more spread out (yes, this is probably better for knowledge retention, but I'm still irritated. Besides, they were just off for two weeks for xmas less than 2 months ago).

Also, this Berry-blast Echinacea tea tastes like ass, and I have 18 more bags of it to choke down. Because you can't just get echinacea, you have to get echinacea and something. God forbid someone doesn't want the extraneous crap. So now my teapot looks like it's bleeding. Since it has a face on it (I didn't buy it; it was a cast-off from my in-laws who gave us a teapot so that we could offer them tea when they came over. Guess how well that worked.) it's more than a little disconcerting.

*Never mind that I don't have a lawn. I barely have space to keep my trash and recycling bins.

**I've done both. But the kids were pounding on my side door. I've also hosed down a tree with a squirrel in it. I don't like squirrels.

***That's 297 inches for non-metric users. Also, that's the warmest the house has been–even with the heat on–since before xmas.

****Because it's not possible that they might work non-traditional hours, freelance, work from home, take holiday, or anything else.

Fits of joy

Yay! I can waste my time on the Internet again instead of getting real work done!

On the other hand, I can actually get some real work done because I have the Internet! Yay!

That is all.*

*The problem, if you care, had something to do with the radio filter or whatever on the line. The BT tech was helpful in explaining what it was, I just wasn't paying much attention. 8:30am and all that. Also, turns out 2 of our DSL filters were shot (namely, the 2 we were using. Thankfully we've been sent something like 7 of them–along with our 4 routers.).

Argh

Our phone line died. Which of course means our broadband is neither broad, nor bandy. Joy.

In other words, I'm at the library, and any hope of doing any work is shot until they fix stuff at home.

Did I mention I'm overjoyed?

Frustration abounds

So I should be writing about my trip, with nearly missed flights and nosy US Border Patrol agents, a beautiful wedding, and fabulous friends, but I'm not. I should write about my new job, or buying archery equipment, but I'm not. I'm cranky, so I'll write about that.

Upstairs has been stomping and banging and yelling and playing the radio too loud, generally pushing me toward a lengthy jail sentence. Graze, which is a really cool "food through the post" thing, screwed up and didn't send us the two boxes I ordered for delivery today. So instead of trying to send them for tomorrow (or even Friday) they cancelled the order--but as an apology, they're giving us a free box. Too bad I didn't get the two boxes I actually needed for today. I'll see what Adam has to say, but I'll probably be contacting them to point out that I ordered two boxes because I had a plan for them, and now I have to make other plans, so please give me a second credit.

LoveFilm, in their infinite wisdom, decided to send us a disc from Lexx. Unlike Netflix, where you can choose the order you want to see movies in, LoveFilm only allows prioritization. I can rank a title as a high, medium, or low, priority, but I can't say that I want to see Batman Begins next, followed by Battlestar Galactica. Or whatever. Because LoveFilm only seems to have 1 copy of the fourth season of OZ (the HBO prison show, not an L. Frank Baum reinterpretation), we keep getting stuff off our medium priority list, so they sent us Lexx. That would be fine, except they didn't send us the first disc of the series. They sent the last. This is in direct disregard of their own rules, which say they'll send discs in series order (Netflix did this to me a lot with Andromeda. Needless to say, that also pissed me off). So it looks like I'll be contacting them and complaining, especially as they're beginning to throttle our service again and we're no longer getting discs in a timely manner.

We're also being screwed by our energy provider, who wants to raise our direct debit by over half because their website has only allowed me to submit a meter reading once (I've been trying for months and it's always given me a "sorry, try again later" message) and they never send out a meter-reader. As such, we've been on an "estimated" reading for about a year, and now they want to screw us with that. Fixed direct debit my ass. "Fixed" means you don't change the rate after two months.

Lastly, someone sold our phone number all over. We're on the TPS (Telephone Preference Service), which is the stupidly named equivalent of the US's Do Not Call list. Before we changed phone numbers, we got called left, right, and center for a previous owner of the number, even with multiple requests to the same people to stop calling because she doesn't have the number anymore. With the new number we were blessedly free of such things (the previous people had registered it to the TPS as well). Then suddenly, we started getting called by a "Windows Technical Support" scam that claims to be operating under Microsoft. We got loads of these with the old number, but for the last several months we've been blessedly free of such calls. But now they're back again, so I'm having to unplug the phone before going to bed so we're not brutally awakened at 7:55am by someone wanting us to either take a survey (which Adam may have successfully dealt with today but I haven't been able to because they're so slow on picking up the line when I answer) or wanting to sell us "tech support."

I should be a happier person, but I've been able to get absolutely nothing done today because of upstairs (who have been at it for over 9 hours now), then being screwed by various companies to which I give money, but do not have to. The one bright bit of news, however, is that Adam and I are finally--almost--the proud owners of Starfarers of Catan, which is an incredibly hard to find game by Klaus Teuber and Mayfair Games. It's out of print and it generally goes for about $150 on eBay, which is far more than I'm willing to pay. But Adam and I managed to snag a copy for $50 plus shipping. Well, almost. We actually bought Die Sternenfahrer Von Cataan. Thankfully, the owner threw in the English translation booklet as well. My German is limited to say the least, but is more than Adam has, who is only capable of ordering a beer. Admittedly, that is a necessary skill, but I can also swear, which is also a useful skill.

Finally!

Praise Jesus and pass the pork chops--the neighbors are finally moving out.  Between domestic fights, a constantly yapping little shit of a Jack Russell terrier, an occasional crying baby, and Sunday afternoon bad "romantic" music interludes that are so loud we can hear every note and every word of every commercial.  Also, she smokes like a cheap chimney.

The flat has been listed as available for a month or two now, and when I looked it up online, it's free from the 30th of March.  It sat empty for close to two months after it was showing as being let, so we were hoping they would move out early as well.  Not so much, but they seem to have been moving out over the course of the week, with a ton of stuff going yesterday, including the bed (looked like the cheapest Ikea frame they have).  She was wearing her usual neon pink Doc Marten boots, but this time with some lovey shiny spandex leggings, complete with neon splotches of color.  For all her sins, she more or less has the body to pull off the leggings, but the way the leggings were made, the splotches ended abruptly at the seams, looking extra tacky.

But digressing from my nasty comments about her fashion, today appears to be cleaning day.  He's over today, the windows are wide open, the microwave is outside, and the grill pan is on the porch, drying in the sun.  Hopefully this means they'll be gone by Saturday.  With Mom and Dad here for a week starting then, it's bad enough to contend with the physiotherapist stamping and yammering away upstairs, but the yapping dog would be too much--lord knows it is/was for Adam and I.

So yes, the neighbors appear to be leaving.  Hopefully the place will sit empty for months again, and when new people move in, hopefully they'll be better than the exiting occupants.

Frustrations

So I'm not eligible for citizenship this year, it seems.  I'm less than thrilled about this; I swear they changed the rules on me, but I can't find any proof of that being the case.  As they post all immigration rule changes on the Home Office website, and I've read through all of them back to 2009, I'm thinking maybe I misunderstood.  Either way, I'm still angry because instead of being able to apply for citizenship and be done with this malarkey, I have to spend another £550 for another visa (settlement/indefinite leave to remain) and I still have to take the stupid "Life in the UK" test, which is another £50, plus £10 for the book.  Like the US citizenship test, no citizen of the country could actually pass it.  Argh.

In addition, I'm still angry at the various neighbors and the noises they produce, but despite that, Adam and I will be signing our Lewisham Road lease for another year.  Our landlord was over today, repainting part of the bathroom for us since we have mildew in places, and it was missing paint over the shower.  I don't think the color matches, but honestly, I really don't care right now.  It still looks better.

Also, our TV is half broken.  Last we looked the picture was ok, but it makes a horrific static/buzzing/hissing sound.  It's not easily described, but it's quite loud, doesn't seem to be coming from the speakers, and we're worried it will burn the house down (some of the possible problems do include fire, according to the ever-trustworthy internet).  So the search for a TV repairman continues, as the number Adam was given is disconnected, and the other number is missing a digit.  Luckily, our aforementioned landlord's father-in-law is a TV repairman, so hopefully Landlord will text me his phone number this evening (it wasn't in his phone).  This is doubly sad because while I was able to finish the first series of Downton Abbey (which is completely awesome, by the way), I just got all seven seasons of Deep Space 9, and without a functioning TV I can't watch them, unless I either a) use Adam's computer or b) grab the little TV from the bedroom and hook it up.  It's a good little TV for a bedroom (except we can't plug it in because there are no outlets on that side of the room), but it's not real good for DVDs or gaming--or really anything that decides to letterbox the screen.  I watched Lord of the Rings on it, and--I kid you not--the picture was only about 3 inches tall.  Also, it hated my PS2 cable, and when we played Lego Star Wars on it, the picture was green.  So all in all it was a very good day when Steve of Titanic Mill gave us his old TV, and then apologized to us that it was so crap.  We love it, and think/hope it just needs to be cleaned to be as good as new.

Otherwise, writing went really well yesterday.  The plot is spinning off in a direction I didn't anticipate, which is ok, since I was hoping something would develop in the way of a plot, but now I have to figure out this particular direction.  I created a "bad guy" with a more-than-usual nefarious plan, that the hero feels obligated to stop, but I don't know what said bad guy's nefarious plan is.  Still, any semblance of a plotline is good because even a vague idea is something I can flesh out, and more than I had before.  So that's finally starting to chug along.  Which is extra good, since the deadline is March.

I'm also going to a conference in York at the end of February, which will hopefully be interesting and very good for both Girl Museum and me professionally.  If all goes well, I'll be presenting with another Girl Museum intern, and she seems extra nice because apparently I can crash at her place instead of shelling out for a room.  Adam thinks I should still get a hotel room, but since he's not coming with me, I'd rather not spend the money since I'm not making any of it.  Besides, it's only for one night, so it's unlikely to be too horrific.  And if it is, well, it's only for one night, and I lived with my freshman roomate for a year at PLU (trust me, it was tough, and not just because I'm a bitch who can't share).  Perhaps someday I should share those stories.  I probably won't, since they're not flattering at all to someone who had pretty severe mental and emotional (and physical) issues, but some are probably funny in hindsight.  About 13 years on, I don't find most of them particularly funny, just sad and hurtful.

Home Again

I apologize for the complete lack of posts--here and on the Food Blog--while we were in Eugene.  It was a combination of being extremely busy, being on the road, having food poisoning, and just not wanting to bother.  Proper recaps of the trip will follow, because while we didn't get nearly everything done or purchased that we wanted to, some good things happened to us.  And some bad (see: food poisoning).  But now, alas and alack, we are back home, which isn't quite so horrifying as I thought it might be, though it is rather cold in here (that's getting better, due to leaving the heat on to build up residual heat in the walls).  And there wasn't any snow, which was a nightmare last year.

Falling down around our ears

Good thing we're renting, though I rather imagine that Edward*, our long-suffering landlord, just wishes we would go away.  I don't know if I mentioned this before, but we didn't pay rent for something like 3 months when we first moved in.  We paid the first month's rent to the agency along with our deposit, then turned in our standing order form for all subsequent months (I don't know what it's like in the States these days, but around here, you can't just write a monthly check for your bills, which completely sucks; I hate being forced to use direct debit or standing orders for most things).  Problem was that our standing order wouldn't go through because their bank had been changed and bought out so many times that magic was required to make it work--or paying a month half in advance (as a show of good faith).  The standing order started working right after we cut them a £1200 check, which included the next month.  Joy.

Shortly after we moved in, we ended up getting a new washing machine.  Edward was not pleased, since he told me that the only reason the flat has a washer at all is because when he bought the place it came with it.  But that was part of our rental contract, so he bought us a new one.  The cheapest one he could find, which means no dryer, and it also means that 3 months or so along, the pump is already making questionable noises.**

Now we're getting a new shower.  Months and months ago, Adam and I reported that the dial--our shower is electric, which is not nearly as dangerous as it sounds, and means you never run out of hot water--for the shower was FUBAR.  We could still turn it on and off, but something had clearly broken inside, and we couldn't get it apart to find out what (the screws holding the cover on are rusted and partially stripped).  So Edward and his mate came out to look at it, and decided to order a new dial.  Problem is that the shower is kinda old, and definitely cheap.  Consequently, no parts made for it.  So it sat for ages as we couldn't agree on a mutually convenient time until last Friday, when they came out and glue-gunned it to hold the inside of the dial together.  30 hours later I go to take a shower and it's tight as sin to turn, but it's not slipping--yay.  Unfortunately, it also wouldn't turn off.  Luckily, the screws were no longer in so tight, so I could take apart the shower to turn the water off (this is where an electric shower is dangerous--exposed wires + water ≠ good times, so we're super careful, and glad that the tub isn't coated metal).  So that's been going on since Sunday, but a text this morning promised me a new shower, hopefully installed by Friday.

That same text also promised us two new radiators.  Yeah, that's right; along with the shower we're getting new heating, since the radiator in the bathroom hasn't worked properly since we moved in (I reported it then), and last week the radiator in the living room stopped working.  Completely.  It looks and sounds like it's working, but it doesn't heat up.  Sounds like the element is blown to me, but whatever it is, the electrician was not convinced it was fixable.  So he did some research or something, and for some reason or another, we're getting new radiators, also hopefully installed by Friday.  Since it's working its way to being brass monkey cold around here, I hope there are no delays.  Besides, it's impossible to get the laundry to dry without some kind of heating.

Other than the shower requiring a screwdriver for use, and it's cold in here and there's no heating (except in the bedroom), everything's great.  Oh, except for the stompy physio above us, and the (much more occasional) yappiness next door.

*Name changed to protect the slightly peeved.

**I've not told him about this.  When you finish the post you'll understand why.

Neighborly Woes

Or possibly neighborly anger.  Rage.  Frustration.  Homicide, even.

You might have noticed I'm anti-social.  I don't mind individuals, and I don't even mind going out sometimes and dealing with others from time to time.¹  But when I'm at home, I'm at home because I don't want to be dealing with these "others."²  These others piss me off, by walking, talking, smoking, and well, by merely existing near my presence.  There is a reason why The Boy and I want to live in the middle of a large piece of land with a similarly large wall around it.  That, and I like wandering around nekkid.³

At Titanic, most of this wasn't a huge deal.  Yeah, sure, we could hear the neighbors from time to time, but mostly it was just their washer, which being an inanimate, if loud and moving,⁴ object, didn't bother me.  Sometimes we'd hear an occasional trip up or down the stairs, and even more rarely, a party.  Or the random afternoon practice of Rock Band, which was kinda obnoxious, but usually limited to about 15-20 minutes.  Still, the one flat (with the exception of the link above) was super-quiet most of the time we lived there, and the other flat wasn't bad.  Plus, we were on the top floor, so no noise from above, and since our part of the building wasn't completed, we had no one below us.  And unless someone had binoculars or was on the neighbor's balcony, no one could see in.  Relative peace and privacy prevailed.

Here at Lewisham, it's a different matter.  We moved in below a physiotherapists' office.  I suppose the fact that they showed us the place on a Sunday should have been a tip, but we didn't pick up on it.  This place has the worst insulation of nearly any place I've ever lived, and that includes the apartment with the odd combination of nice and crappy that I lived in near PLU.  When you live below someone, you expect to hear some sounds (I guess, I hate living in apartment buildings, terraced housing, or basically anything that involves sharing a wall/ceiling/floor).  But these physiotherapists seem to make it their stock in trade to stomp everywhere.  This is doubly annoying, since at least one of the people who works out of the office claims to specialize in teaching you how to walk properly (whatever that means).  We can also hear them talking, and sometimes, make out the words.

This came to a head yesterday, although I refrained from going up there and popping it.  First, they arrived about 8:30 in the morning.  Adam and I accept that because he works anti-social hours we need to accept that others will be awake, active, and working when we're sleeping (we go to bed between 1:00am and 2:00am, and get up between 10:00am and 11:00am).  But at no time is it necessary for them to be stomping back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across our bedroom ceiling (the back of our flat is the front of their offices).  Nor is it necessary to yell "well if I'd know you were going to be here, I wouldn't have bothered to come in!"  And clearly it was necessary, because they proceeded to talk--not quite so loudly, but loud enough--for the next 2 hours.  Above our bedroom.  Whilst periodically stomping about, and stomping up and down the stairs to use the loo (many, many times.  Pea-bladders, all of them).

But it gets better.  Not only did they come in at 8:30am, but they didn't leave until sometime after 9:30pm.  They kept this shit up all fucking day, and I couldn't get any work done because if they weren't stomping, they were yelling.  And then in the evening, they seemed to have a party.  Complete with a screaming, crying child.  When I finally lost it and screamed up "Walk, don't stomp!" someone stomped on the floor at the same time I yelled "stomp."  Possibly coincidence, possibly jackassery.  Hard to tell.  Luckily, they didn't come in until this afternoon today, and I'm not sure they're even still there.  A repeat of yesterday would have earned them a visit from a cranky Katie.  A cranky Katie trying to be polite, but cranky nevertheless.

Instead, this morning we were presented with yapping dog, starting at 7:30ish (Adam and I disagree when it started).  Unfortunately, it wasn't outside, where it will either go away or we can deal with it.  We finally got neighbors next door over the weekend (this seems to have been an ongoing process, taking 6 or so weeks).  Monday about noon we were presented with drilling right outside our door, which was weird and ominous until we determined they were installing a satellite dish (the only form of TV we can get here, which is why we don't have TV).  I was also presented with a lot of fag smoke coming in through my open windows.  This isn't uncommon, unfortunately; we live immediately next to a footpath, and on an alley behind several businesses, all of whom seem to want to perch on our railing to have their cigs and make pointless phone calls.  But mostly it only happens once every couple of hours.  Monday, I couldn't see anyone, but it was pouring in, far worse than usual, and about every half hour.  So since I couldn't see anyone, I decided it was time to check the mail.  I opened the door, and got absolutely glared at by the cigarette slag sitting on the lower steps (the flats have steps into the gravelled "garden" area, and then steps from that up to the door), and possibly by the person on the upper steps (who I didn't get so much of a look at, since I didn't want to appear to be checking them out).  The look was so malevolent that I didn't want to say hi, let alone "stop blowing smoke into my flat!" for fear of getting shanked.  Seriously.  Complete chav-ette, this one, and a vicious one to boot.

So I finally gave up and left the windows shut, which really irked me because it was warm and I was using the windows to a) air out the flat, which always smells musty because it was closed up damp sometime well before we moved in; b) to try and dry out the damp (it ruined our dresser, actually--the bottoms of the lower drawers are warped, and that only happened since the move); and c) to dry the laundry in a timely manner.  Nothing else of note happened until about 10pm, when I left to meet Adam on his walk home.  At that point, a stereotypical looking male chav (tracksuit bottoms, wife-beater) was struggling with the door.  I don't know if he was trying to lock or unlock it, but he had a key, so I assumed he wasn't trying to break in.  Either way, I shrugged it off and hot-footed it off to meet Adam.

No extraneous noise from next door, and nothing of interest Tuesday (yesterday) except for my accidentally dropping a pan in the cupboard and a sudden outbreak of yapping, which went away fairly quickly.  This led us to assume a dog was now living next door as well.  That's the only actual identified occupant (though not by sight), since I can't work out who is actually living there.  Presumably the male who was projecting chav-ness, and one of the females.  It's only one bedroom, so it's unlikely that more are living there (at least legally).  It was also quiet both Monday and Tuesday nights, but well lit-up.  That was nice; with crappy insulation⁵ you never know what you're going to hear.  And because this is my house, I don't want to hear the neighbors, nor do I want them to hear me.

Enter this morning.  7:30am is the time, give or take (Adam says 7:35, I say 7:25).  I wake up, and the first thing I'm hearing is yapping.  Fairly continuous yapping.  And no one shushing the dog.  I hauled my butt out of bed to go pee and do some things on the computer before 8am (long story, but it involves our evil, lying ISP), hoping that by the time I crawled back into bed, the dog would shut up.  It didn't.

Then eventually it did (about 8:00, I figure).  So I started to drift off back to sleep.  As I started to enter that blissful first round of REM sleep, the yapping started up, and my REM ended.  About 8:30.  This cycle repeated until 10:00 or so.  Maybe slightly earlier; I gave up and got up about 10:20.  So far as I can figure, yap-master next door is hoping that by making noise, his/her owners will grant him/her some attention.  The flaw in this plan is that I think the owners aren't home--I think s/he's yapping because they left for work.  I'm also hoping that this is a puppy, who will grow out of it in time, or a dog trying to get used to new circumstances.  Mostly what I'm hoping is that this yapping will not be a regular occurrence. If it is, we'll need to learn yapper's name, and take to yelling "!  Shut-up!" through the wall.

Adam's thought is that the yapping started because someone got up.  My concern with that is the total lack of effort to shut the dog up.  If that's the case, it won't stop, and we'll (meaning I'll) have to go over and politely point out that the walls aren't insulated, and I'm having problems suppressing a desire to kill their dog.  And let's face it, anti-social though I am, I don't really want to start off on the wrong foot with the neighbors.  Though I might have already done, what with the slamming of the windows every time they were smoking.  Of course, it's possible that neither of those two live there, either.  Who knows.

At least it's quieter today.  Here's hoping the peace lasts.

¹Also known as "the public," and part, but by no means the only--or even the main, despite what I told my boss--reason I quit my job.  The real reason I quit the job was not something I could reasonably share with said boss.

²Yes, like Lost, I'm afraid of what they might do.  Kidnap me, kill me, or just irritate me.  The last is the kicker.

³Well, I used to.  Back when I wasn't cold all the time.  And when people couldn't see me.

⁴Thereby ignoring the definition of "inanimate."

⁵Read: non-existent.  I swear I heard the previous occupants--who moved out within a month of our moving in, take that how you will--fart a couple of times, though Adam says it was diagonally upstairs, which still proves my point of no insulation.

What's in a name? Frustration.

So I didn't change my name when I got married.  This has been a fairly constant battle with all sorts of entities, including governmental and various family members (generally not close ones).  Somehow, however, when we moved to Lewisham Road, it got sorted out with the various agencies we owe money to on a regular basis (water, electric, council tax, etc.).  I'm guessing this is mostly because I did all the work with the letting agent, so they used my name, and dumped Adam's on there as an afterthought.  They also handled most of the initial paperwork (including trying to change the energy provider without our--or our landlords'--permission, which really pissed me off), so it got sent off correctly to said agencies (Yorkshire Water managed to royally screw up both our names, but they were nice and fixed them promptly).  Miracle of miracles, something went right.

I find the whole thing ironic, of course, because prior to getting married, I was known everywhere by my maiden name.  Thus, it should be easier to not change it than change it, but whatever.  And while I know my friends' married names (those who changed their names), I still think of them--and often refer to them out of convenience--by their maiden names as well.  I guess we'll see what happens in the States, where I more truly existed than I did here, at least prior to March 2010, when I arrived with my marriage visa in hand.  In the States, not only did I not legally change my name, which is--at least in the State of Oregon--easy to do on a marriage license, since it provides a list of choices for each party (Weidmann, Barrett, Weidmann-Barrett, Barrett-Weidmann), but I effectively confirmed my maiden name.  A sidenote: if you don't want one of the choices that the computer provides for you, you must go before a judge to legally change your name, even if you're changing it because you're getting married, which is the only way to legally change your name if it's not via marriage (friends who wanted to combine their last names--Merriam and Foxsomething--to Merrifoxes had to do this).

Digressions aside, right now my decision is biting me in the butt (note Adam's laughter. Jackass).  This is because I'm applying for some open positions at his work, and nepotism being what it is, it would probably help to have Adam's last name.  Alternately, having a section on the application form* that asks "do you know anyone who is or has been employed by ____" would also be useful.  But I can't work it into the cover letter, nor anywhere on the application form.  So instead--and to be fair, I would have asked him to do this anyway--my dear hubby is whoring my name around as best he can, in the hopes that perhaps I'll actually land an interview.

So apparently I can't win for losing.  Or lose for winning.  Either way.  Oh well, here's hoping for the best.

*I hate application forms.  Just accept a CV and a cover letter.  Being unable to determine suitable candidates from a CV and page of text but somehow able to pick them out via an application form shows a distinct lack of initiative and intelligence in my mind.

Finally, I'm the Hero

So for what might possibly be the first time in our relationship, I got to be the hero.  Normally, Adam is the hero.  He's the one with the job (which meant that I could quit my crappy one).  He's the one who takes out (both) the giant-ass spiders (and the little ones).  He . . . ok, well, that's all I've got right now.

But yesterday, yesterday I got to be a hero for the first time (buying an overpriced undershirt probably doesn't count).  Where I'm afraid of spiders--mortally, irrationally, overreactionally afraid of spiders--slugs ook him out.  A lot.  He swears they don't scare him, just gross him out, but the boy backs way out of the way, and usually out of visual range, when there's a slug to be found.  Also, his toes curl under (way under).

This made his Monday morning shower a bit more interesting.  For those not in the know, our Lewisham Road flat is an underdwelling, or what others might call a daylight basement.  Our bedroom and bathroom are both below street level, though both do have windows, and an extraction fan in the bathroom.  Given the rather cheap construction of our flat (and due to necessity, to be fair) our extraction fan is essentially a large, mostly open pipe at head level in our shower.  As in, during the day, I can see daylight and plant life through it.  There is a bit of a grill on each end, but it doesn't exactly block anything.  In this case, what it did not block was a slug.

It wasn't a very big slug, to be fair.  As such things go, it might even have been a cute slug (I'm not afraid of them, but I'm not convinced of their "cuteness" either.  It's a slug.  Eugene girl or not, the Slug Queen is only awesome because it's a guy in drag.  Usually a hairy guy.).  What it was was an industrious slug. It had ventured in from the vent, up the tiles then across the tiles and down behind Adam's shampoo and conditioner bottles (Dove, if you're keeping score.  I use generic Boots or Morrison's knockoff of Herbal Essences.).  Behind his shampoo and conditioner is where he found it.  And the pile of eggs it was laying.

To his eternal credit, he did not scream.  He did, however, take what might be the fastest shower he's taken in the 5.5 years we've been together.  Shortly after the shower turned off, the door opened.  This was common at Titanic--we'd let the steam out and not worry about flashing the locals, since the bathroom opened into the hallway.  But here the bathroom is right across from our living room windows, which open onto a very busy alley.  So no opening of the door, meaning I was a bit surprised that the door opened so quickly.  He did not have enough time to do his hair (a much longer process than mine, in part because he has longer hair, and in part because he's weird), shave (for Monday is a shaving day), or brush his teeth (no explanation needed, except for structural symmetry here).

He came very quickly out of the bathroom, found me, and said, "I need you to take care of the slug in the shower.  And the eggs."  He was very calm about it.  Until I looked at his toes.  They were curled under, somewhere in the region of his heels.  But, hero though I got to be, I must give him credit.  If I felt the way he did, I'd have been out of there like a shot, screaming for him.  He finished his shower.  In record time, perhaps, and neither one of us is sure he got all the soap rinsed off, but he did finish his shower, even after finding his nemesis in the corner behind his shampoo and conditioner, spewing eggs out at a remarkable rate.

I am most proud of Adam.  Jealous at his calm, collected demeanor--excepting his hiding in the corner of the bedroom whilst I removed the offender and where he asked me to examine the entire house for slugs (which I actually did)--but proud.  And for once, I got to be the hero.

You want how much?!

or

Why I had to buy a £10.90 men's undershirt.

As you may or may not recall, Adam's brother Mark got married two weeks ago.  As you also may or may not be aware of, my husband only wears black clothes.  That said, on very rare occasions (graduation, weddings--namely ours and Mark's) he'll wear a white dress shirt with a suit.  In part, this is due to the fact that he doesn't have any black shirts that are nice enough to wear with his suits.

When we got married, Adam didn't own a white undershirt.  My father, on the other hand, owns many of them; I think he bought a caseload of them just before he retired and didn't wear them.  So Adam borrowed one of Dad's, and I asked Dad if Adam could keep it.  Not a problem.

Except Adam didn't want it.  And for some reason, I didn't argue with him, or just keep it myself and give it to him later.  This turned out to be a mistake.  A costly mistake.

When we started getting dressed the morning of Mark's wedding, Adam put on his white shirt.  Sadly, once it was on, it turned a bit pink, except for the nippular region, which was a dark round patch.  After I finished snickering (and trying to purple his nurples), I suggested he try wearing his wedding shirt.  The results were better, but not by much.

Since I was already dressed and ready to go, I volunteered to see if the menswear shop in Slaithwaite (yay for amenities, just around the corner from Lewisham Road!) was open and stocked tee-shirts.  Luckily, it was and it does.  When I walked in, a stodgy, stuffing looking Captain Peacock type fellow came out of the back and asked if he could help me.  I asked him if he stocked white undershirts.  He gave me a rather askance look, and asked me what size, so I told him, "uh, large, I guess."  He pulled a box out of the drawer that said Jockey, showed it to me, and asked if that's what I was looking for.  I should have known that if wouldn't hand me the box to look at something was wrong.

He rang it up and told me the price.  The price being £10.90.  There was only one tee-shirt in the box.  Now, as you may know, I get frustrated when people ask "how much is that in dollars?"  The answer is that generally it doesn't matter; a dollar and a pound spend in basically the same way--a meal you would spend $12 on costs about £12.  That said, sometimes price conversion is useful.  As of writing this, £1 is equal to $1.63.

Now, take both of those financial comparisons into account, and look at how much I paid for the undershirt.

...

...

...

Yeah.  That's right.  Depending on how you look at it, I spent £11, $11, or $17.75 on a single, goddamned white undershirt.  All because my husband wouldn't keep one of my father's.

The good news?  It's very comfortable.  Soft and fitted, but not too tight, and moves nicely with him.  All I have to say?  It had damned well better!

Attack of the Zombie Spider

So there was another spider inicident the other day.  I've encountered several more (both before and after the "towel incident," documented here), but this one was, once again, the size of my head.*  Kristan actually asked me--while shrieking with (justified) laughter--if it wasn't actually someone's pet tarantula that escaped and I murdered, but it wasn't.  Wolf spider, I"m fairly certain.  Adam saw this other one as well, since he was home, so I have proof of not being crazy, or at least of not lying about its size.  I grabbed the kettle and turned on the tap to fill it so I could make tea, when suddenly there was a brown fuzzy thing scrabbling at the edge of the sink, trying to get away from the water.  I turned off the water--no idea how, probably as a matter of self defence since the spider was now extra determined to escape its prison since it was now flooding--set/dropped the kettle on the counter, and screamed.  Actually, I'm fairly certain I screamed first, and continued throughout my other actions.  Adam came to my rescue from the bathroom, with a towel wrapped around his waist.  He saw the spider, said "oh, I thought it was something important," and went to finish his ablutions.  Then he grabbed a glass, a flyer from our ISP, and asked me to open the door so he could release it back into the wild, where it is now probably terrorizing the neighbors.  Which is fine, as long it's not terrorizing me.

Otherwise, the parental units have been and gone.  They seemed to have a nice time; I hope so, as we had a nice time with them (drinking, eating, playing Settlers).  Beyond that, I've applied for a job that I haven't heard back from yet, which blows because it's right around the corner from us.  Seriously, it's probably a 35 second walk (or less, but I'm taking into account locking the door and setting the alarm code).  I'll have to contact them again shortly and ask what the status is, because I think I'd like this job.  At the very least it's an income that doesn't involve me making sandwiches.

I'm also working on editing a paper that some of us from Girl Museum submitted for last summer, and we just heard back about.  They accepted it, but with major revisions.  Because none of us understood the philosophy involved (it's for a Deleuzian publication), it was a bit sketchy, and our format didn't really work.  Since everyone else is employed, and mostly because I didn't say no, the job of editing fell to me.  It's hard work, but I'm actually really enjoying it, and I also seem to better understand what Deleuze and Guattari were talking about.  I think they were mostly full of crap, but at least I better understand it now.  I still have about 3/4 of the paper left (and a whole bunch of citations to find and insert), but the shape seems to be pretty solid now, and the flow will be better, with far less repetition.  My goal is to finish the second section today.  Since I think I'm only going to be combining the work of two authors there, it--crossed fingers--won't be too horrible.  As I learned on Saturday (with one primary author and about 2 paragraphs from my section plus the additions I had to write in), if you were to plot number of authors on one axis and time on the other, you'll get an exponential curve.

Lastly, there are two weddings this week.  First is the royal wedding on Friday.  And--along with laughing about the spider--Kristan may have mocked me for knowing when the date was, but I challenge you to live in the UK and not know.  Or to spend any time on Yahoo's homepage looking at their "news" articles (I read the Yahoo US site, by the way, not the Yahoo UK site, so you can't blame it on that).  And then on Saturday my brother in law is getting married, which should be a good time.  People keep asking me what I'm wearing, and then announce that I should wear my wedding dress.  No, I will not wear my wedding dress to someone else's wedding, that's just tacky, even if my dress didn't look like a wedding dress.  In short, I don't know, because I acquired a plague on my left arm from sitting in the sun (can't determine if it's a heat rash or a slight sun allergy, but I also can't be bothered to see a doctor since it's not debilitating, just itchy and ugly).  Should be healed by Saturday though, so hopefully that won't affect my wardrobe choice.  Still, I can't understand why people care what I'm wearing to a wedding that isn't mine and I'm not a member of the wedding party.

Now that I've procrastinated enough, back to editing, since I also have to make pasta dough, pasta sauce, and brownies.  And possibly a potato tart for tomorrow.

*Actually, I think this one was a tiny bit smaller than the first one, but not much.  But then, when you find a giant spider in your towel, one that isn't so actively threatening your life won't seem quite as large.  Either way, still huge.  Adam was impressed by its size as well.

Whew!

So we're finally moved and settled in here on Lewisham Road.  I guess.  It's quite a change, and I don't dislike it, but I don't love it, either.  Adam likes it more, he thinks, but I miss our classy (looking . . . looking, not in actuality) Titanic Mill flat.  It had a working washing machine and dryer (all-in-one), and this place has a broken (soon to be replaced) washer only, that sucks.  Hopefully the new one will be better.  Hopefully the new one will also have a built-in dryer, as it takes a week for clothes to dry, which means they smell by the time they're dry.  However, we're not holding out much hope for that, as the landlord basically told us it comes down to cost, so they'll probably get the cheapest one possible.  Still, he's a nice guy, so I can't say too much.  Besides, he's probably a bit pissed that in less than a month of our taking residence he has to replace it.  Not our fault it's broken.  I did actually break the handle off, and was going to pay to get that replaced, but the repairman discovered the control board was busted (we could get it to work, but it was a pain), said "it's cheaper to get a new one" and took off with both the new and old door.

Titanic also had those two joys that are either impossible to find, or damn close.  First is the dishwasher.  We knew that when we talked about moving we wouldn't have one, most rentals don't.  It's not killing me yet, but I miss the ease of cramming it full and hoping for the best.  I also really really really miss the garbage disposal.  Those don't seem to exist outside of North America, so it was a pleasure and a joy to be able to peel veg and apples into the sink, throw eggshells in, or dump coffee grounds (which Adam still does) and then just cram it down the drain with lots of cold water.  Even Adam--who was afraid of the disposal slightly at Titanic--misses it a bit.

There are some other changes that take getting used to.  One of the biggies is that the floor is not level.  Not at all.  Not in the slightest.  Not even if you squint and don't look too closely.  You can actually feel in your legs that you're walking uphill from the door to the kitchen counter opposite (which is maybe 15 feet).  I'd guess it's 2-3 inches higher.  I'm also not convinced that the bedroom, bathroom, and landing are level either, but it's not so obvious.  It's also hard to get used to a carpeted bathroom.  I'm very not pleased about that, but nothing we can do.  But seriously, what moron carpets a bathroom?!  Ironically, it's also the nicest carpet in the house (the entirety of which is carpeted).

We also have to get used to living below someone.  We were on the top floor at Titanic, and there was no one below us, as they hadn't finished developing the final phase--they did some of it in 2009, so by the time we moved out, 1, 2, and 5 were done, but I believe 3 and 4 were unfinished.  4 certainly was, meaning that I could jump around like a moron (it's called exercise...) and not disturb anyone below us.  Being in an underdwelling means we can't disturb anyone below us, but since we live under a physiotherapist, well...we get disturbed a lot.  And there's no insulation, meaning we get all the stomping of them walking around and doing their therapies, as well as all the noise of them talking and running the hoover (which they do in a very weird manner).  Nor do they keep normal hours, but are mostly by appointment.  This is good in the sense that we don't get woken up every day at 8:20 (just some days), but they were there for 12 hours the other day, and most of it seemed to be them sitting around shooting the shit.  Loudly.  With lots of laughing.  So I started laughing whenever they did.

Adam and I both understand that we knowingly moved in under them, but we assumed that a) there was at least some insulation and b) well, mostly that there would be insulation.  We're contemplating making a recording of us having sex (or simulating having sex, which would probably be more fun) and playing it very loudly when they get to be too noisy.  Slamming the cupboard doors lots, screaming "use the whip!" moaning and grunting and such, and finally yelling a safety word ("cucumber" and "microwave" have both been suggested).  I've also thought about taking up the accordion and playing (badly, very badly) whenever they're up there, doing cover songs (badly, very badly) of a wide range of music (Canon in D, Coldplay, jazz standards, etc).  I also thought about the tuba.  Adam suggested I take up the bass drum, and just beat out basic rhythms (which is just about all a bass drum ever does).  Then we thought about putting a single song on constant repeat very very loudly.  "Paperback Writer" by The Beatles and "Blood" by My Chemical Romance are both front runners.  Both great songs, but not in large doses.

The last problem we've encountered Adam has mostly missed out on.  I, on the other hand, ended up in hysteria last night, and it probably took an hour before my adrenaline slowed.  Titanic had a limited bug problem; one of the advantages of being 5 floors up.  We got flies (dunno where from half the time, probably the vents), and if the doors were open, wasps and other flying things (hence why we bought and velcroed up a screen over the door frame).  I found a few spiders, maybe as many as 5 in two years.  We did have gnat-type things; but those came from our potting soil and plants.  But here, in two weeks, I've killed a weird flying ant thing (I think; couldn't see it that well), found a potato bug/roly-poly/wood louse, and found 3 spiders.  Make that four.

Last night I had the incredibly unpleasant discovery of the world's largest mother fucking spider.  In my towel.  While I was trying to dry off.  Luckily, it didn't end up on me.  I grabbed my towel off the wall, started to dry my left, freshly shaven leg (the right was freshly shaved too, before you ask), and as I moved and the towel flipped out I heard that plopping sound of something not too heavy landing on carpet (but heavy enough to make a sound).  It was--and I'm truly not exaggerating, because I just checked on a measuring tape--at least 2 inches across.  The body was probably a centimeter and a half across, plus those massive scary legs (and body...the whole thing was fucking terrifying).

I'm assuming it was a wolf spider.  I don't know.  But I screamed so fucking loud that I'm sure they heard me in Lancashire (that's the next county over for you non-UK county knowing people).  Did I mention that it was in my towel?  The one that I was using to dry myself with at the time?  After being flung out, it left the bathroom, and crawled under the small bookcase just outside the bathroom door.  I hurriedly finished my drying (yeah, same towel, but I sure as hell wasn't going to try for a second towel at that point), threw lotion on my face and even decided to comb my hair--all in record time, I might add. Then I carefully examined the floor and walls as I leapt from same place to safe place to get onto the bed (also examined before being leapt upon, but with a white duvet this fucker would have shown up like a bloodstain).  From the comparative safety of the bed, I carefully shook out my slippers and then looked inside each of them before putting them on.  Feeling slightly more protected, I grabbed a shoe (the widest I own) and went hunting.

The creature was no longer under the bookcase, which pissed me off because that meant I didn't know where it was.  I found it fairly quickly however, in the corner of one of the stairs between the landing and the living room.  So I grabbed my can of bug spray and sprayed it til it moved (trust me, this shit wouldn't have killed it, it's wasp/flying thing killer, and if I'd have thrown the can at it, it probably would have thrown it back--with better aim).  As it slowly descended the stairs then rather quickly started scuttling across the floor, I sucked it up and whacked it with my shoe--and then ran back really fast after dropping the shoe.  Wussy, perhaps, but seriously, this thing was huge and nearly as wide as my shoe, so if I hadn't hit it hard enough I didn't want to risk it holding onto my shoe and thus being basically on me and well, really, it was a fucking big spider and I was scared and didn't want to be that close to it.

Even dead, the bastard was huge  (yes, I one-hit killed it).  I refused to touch it.  So I grabbed the vacuum and sucked it up.  I'm making Adam empty the hoover next.  Screw his asthma, I felt the damn thing go up the hose so I won't empty the canister.  If it turns into a zombie spider he can deal with it.

I'm sure loads of you are laughing, and that's fine.  It's awesome actually, and part of writing this was that I know it's funny to others.  But I really can't convey the absolute, abject terror that gripped me.  I haven't seen a spider that big since 2004, when I (sorta) helped Jason pack up his stuff so he could move to a new house with Jimmy and I.  He had several very large spiders hiding in that room.  I was outside and halfway across the lawn in about 3 seconds.  And before that, the last horrible spider experience was in a "mine" in Italy, and I refuse to recount that story, because it's neither funny nor dramatic, just super-creepy to me.

Welcome to my new home!