Why you shouldn't buy furniture over the internet

Besides the fact that the internet is for porn.

So, to put it mildly, Mom and Dad gave us an obscene amount of Amazon gift certificates for xmas. That, coupled with Pam and Tony giving me the majority of things that I would have used the gift certificate for (they had already given us our xmas presents as well), meant that I suddenly had an obscene amount of money and no preconceived ideas of what to spend it on.

So we decided to buy a bookshelf. Because that's what you do when you have a lot of books, and ran out of shelf space for them about 100 titles ago.

Yup.

...

...

So...

We don't have a bookshelf. Because that's what happens when you buy furniture off the internet.

To be fair, Amazon is not at fault for any reason, other than by choosing to contract with what might possibly be the worst delivery company in the world. Amazon has already refunded our (Mom and Dad's) money onto the gift certificate. So they've made good, at least.

A week or so after I ordered the bookshelf, Amazon sent me an email saying it had dispatched, and was going to be delivered by HDNL (Home Delivery Network). Thursday, a couple of days after the email, I received a letter from HDNL through the post (yes, a delivery company mailed me something via Royal Mail. I don't get it either). This letter informed me that the bookcase would be delivered on Friday between 7am and 10am and required a signature, so Adam and I made plans to ensure that we would be available then.

At 3:45pm I rang HDNL to ask why my package hadn't been delivered. I was informed that the warehouse had placed a hold on my delivery because--and I really wish I were joking--it was mistakenly sent to a warehouse for 2-man delivery teams. Because it (might/probably) weighs under 35 kilos, it should have gone to a 1-man delivery warehouse.

Yes, they put a hold on my bookcase because they had more people to deliver it than necessary.

I was then told to call a different number, one that wasn't free, put in a bogus confirmation number, and then explain my problem to those people. I was so confused and angry that I did not press the issue unduly before hanging up (I did not, however, call the not-free number to the sister company).

Monday afternoon I called HDNL again asking about my package. This time, however, I was informed that the order had been cancelled. Not by me, not by Amazon, but by HDNL, a third party contracted to deliver my package, which they did not do. Instead, they broke it. And cancelled my order. Because they broke it.

HDNL apologized. Like that helped. Or seemed particularly sincere.

So I called Amazon. I demanded my money back and the order cancelled. I also asked that Amazon remove HDNL from their list of shippers. Sadly, that last request will most likely go unfulfilled.

This is not the first time I've had problems with HDNL. When we were living in Titanic, they "attempted delivery" one afternoon about 4:45 (I was home all day, waiting for the delivery, as non-Royal Mail couriers couldn't get into the building to leave notes), but somehow, 12 minutes after this "attempted delivery" the package was returned to the depot in Leeds. For those with a sketchy knowledge of Yorkshire geography, Leeds is, in non-rush hour traffic, about half an hour away.

So we've still got too many books and not enough shelf space. And I've still got a lot of money on the gift certificate. This isn't the end of the world by any stretch, but a bookcase would have been nice. It might even have tied the room together.

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.

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.

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!

Changes

So this is a bit belated in coming, but a couple of announcements, and more clarification at some point down the road.  First, my last day of work at the sandwich shop is Friday.  A lot of things went into my decision to quit, but in short, I was pretty miserably unhappy there, so Adam and I discussed it, and decided that we could afford my not working for a bit.  I have big plans for my (hopefully not long) unemployment, including looking for new work.  That said, I also plan to write lots, try to relearn some french, and also--and this makes me sad--brush up my music reading, as it's been years since I've played anything, so I don't actually read music very well anymore.  I also hope to get myself into better shape, since my current shape is rather lumpy.

The other thing that I'll be doing with at least my initial new-found freedom is unpacking and setting up our new place.  Adam and I signed a new lease last weekend, and are moving from our mostly lovely first home here at Titanic and to a flat in Slaithwaite (just down the road) that has a carpeted bathroom (ugh) but is in a much nicer little village.  We have no idea if, where, or how everything will fit (and there's no cave to hide/store stuff in), but at least I'll have some time to work on that.

That said, we'll be losing internet on Friday or Saturday (depending on if we come over to Titanic on Saturday), and will hopefully regain it on Tuesday, but possibly later, depending on how everything goes.  Around here, one never knows!

Naked Neighbors, Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

A week or so after the extensive nookie/ménage à quatre incident, Adam and I were sitting on our balcony in our new patio chairs (thanks Pam and Tony!).  Given that it was incredibly windy and was prone to spitting rain from time to time, I'm fairly sure all our neighbors thought we were slightly crazy.  But dammit, we've lived here for nearly a year and a half, and only just got patio furniture, so we were going to make certain we used it.  Now, there's really no place we can sit on the balcony and not see at least partially into either our neighbors on the left side (who also have a balcony, attached to ours) or on our right side (who don't have one at all, but pay the same in rent as we do, which is a total rip-off), unless we're staring straight out, which gets a bit boring.  Generally, I think everyone who has a balcony tries not to intrude, but it does happen, and movement sparks a glance.  So I'm sitting there, facing Adam, who is facing out at an angle away from our non-balcony, loud-orgy-having neighbors.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see an arm and part of an upper body that could have a pinky, fitted shirt on, or could be naked.  I can't really tell, as it was just a flash, and honestly, I don't much care.  Until a few minutes later, when I look over and see, seated on the window-seat type thing that runs the full length of the windows, an ass-crack.  A splotchy pink (not spotty--or zitty, as said in the US--just splotchy) back, and an unremarkable ass, other than it was naked.  Guy wasn't overly podgy, but wasn't fit.  Not unattractive per se, but certainly not prepossessing either.  He was merely noticeable by virtue of the fact that he was naked.  In front of a cathedral window.  That, whilst not having immediately close neighbors, does have plenty of people who can see in (again, probably using Tony's "bird-watching" binoculars).  Oh, and me.  Goody.  Because my life was clearly incomplete, not having seen vaguely douchebaggy neighbor's ass.

Admittedly, it does lend a bit of spice to Adam's and my life.  One of the crappier spices, that has limited to no use, perhaps (celery seed, maybe?  I've only ever used that twice).  And more importantly perhaps, it provides blog-fodder.  We'll see if they keep the loud sex and nakedness us.  Since summer has already passed here for all intents and purposes, I'll be holding out for next year--skylights are closed more now, and these flats do not exactly get or stay warm in winter.  In fact, we're looking at moving most of our lives upstairs, where it should be easier to stay warm.  Bathroom is downstairs, as is kitchen, but everything else can move upstairs, with the possible exception of Adam's computer--and I have a laptop, so that's not even all lost.

Naked Neighbors

As promised yesterday.

PROLOGUE

When Adam and I were living in Leicester--not together, mind you, though we did tend to alternate where we were sleeping most nights (to avoid pissing off housemates or spending too much time at any one place)--his bedroom was at the back of the house, facing over the "garden."  I use the loosest of terms here, as apparently the owner was planning on building an addition to the house there, so it was more of a dump/construction site.  My bet is that it's still not completed.  But I digress.  On the other side of the "garden" was an apartment building/complex thingy.  I'm not sure how to best describe it.  New, fairly nice looking, not very big, and probably not cheap.  However, it had its own parking under all the flats, which was a bonus in that neighborhood.  Because all the flats were on the second floor (first in UK terms) that put them on the same level as Adam's bedroom.  This only became an issue for us in June, the month before Adam was moving out of the house and back to his parents' in Meltham (but was done with exams and classes), and the month I was supposed to be working on my dissertation before moving to London for 8 weeks.  This meant we spent a lot of time together, as opposed to my actually doing any work.  Much of that time was in his bedroom, chillin' and watching movies and the like.  Because it was so bloody hot in his room--hot summer, and badly insulated room--we also spent a lot of time in front of the window, trying to catch whatever breeze we could.  This resulted in the discovery of Naked Neighbors.  Specifically, the flats across from Adam's place, which were . . . oddly . . . designed.  The bathroom window, we discovered to our amusement, was placed directly next to the toilet, and allowed for a full upper body view when someone was seated on the toilet.  It allowed for a rather more . . . extensive . . . view when standing.  Sadly, I discovered this when I saw the dude living there taking a dump (no, he didn't pee sitting down--I discovered that later).  Additionally, the lass over there didn't always wear a towel, which was cool, because she had a nice body, and neither of them seemed to ever wear more than a towel.  Nor did their bathroom seem to have curtains.  If it did, Naked Neighbors either didn't know, or didn't care.  So for one month, Adam and I got to play voyeurs.  Admittedly, this would have been a more fun pastime if we a) had some binoculars (little did we know we could have borrowed his dad's, who seems to have become a voyeur himself, given the constant presence of the binoculars on their guest bedroom bed) and b) we had a view into something other than the bathroom.  Even so, we were sad to be leaving the Naked Neighbors.

CHAPTER 1

This now brings us up to about 3 weeks or a month ago.  About 12:30am, Adam and I are getting ready for bed (he works swing, so we tend to go to bed pretty late, especially on the weekend).  Being Saturday night, this was actually pretty early for us.  It was hot, so we had the skylights open, which is an ever present struggle between fresh, cool air, the wind rattling the shade on the skylight, and the often abrupt rain showers that occur.  No rain had happened recently, and there was very little wind, so we were fine with keeping them pretty wide open.  Suddenly, we both paused as we heard a female "ahhh, ohhh, uhhh" from next store.  We smiled at each other, and--voyeurs that we are, aural or otherwise--kept quiet as we listened.  After a couple of minutes, she sounded like she had finished, so we went back about our business.  Few minutes later, she started up again.  We grinned again, and still kept quiet.  Again, after a few minutes, all was done.  But wait.  This moaning and sighing and general sounds of pleasure (if not complete fulfillment, to be fair) waxed and waned for at least 40 minutes!  We don't know if it was longer than that, since we don't know if they started well before we first heard her.

It gets better though.  We know she wasn't alone (hey, I'm fine with enjoying the solo life; not enough people do, in my opinion), because she lives there with her partner/husband/vaguely douchebaggy guy.  But more than that, Adam had to leave about 7am on Sunday so he could go kill shit dead (shit being clay pigeons, and the shooting day out being his birthday present).  I got up with him--and went back to bed shortly thereafter, to be fair--and as I was leaving the bathroom, I heard the neighbor's door open.  Nosy soul that I am, I snuck over to the door and quietly peered out the peephole.  Where, lo and behold, I saw another couple saying goodbye to the couple who lives there.  This was at about 7:20.  Yup.  Walk of shame.  Or not, as the case may be.  Either way, I found the 40+ minutes of Marvin Gaye next door significantly more plausible when more people were involved, because be honest: how long does it really take you to do the nasty most of the time?  And if the other couple wasn't involved, then the loud noises were just kinda creepy; that's seriously not being an awesome host (either keep it down, or invite them up).

As I am bored writing now, I will leave Chapter 2, and the actual visuals of the New Naked Neighbors for later.  Can anyone say unnecessary ass-crack?

Star-struck

Sir Patrick Stewart was at the spa today.  So far, that has been the only good thing about living above/in the same building as a "high class" spa.  He has a silver Roll-Royce (and a driver), and is only about 5'10".  He's also stunningly attractive, even more so in person (oh, that profile...).  He was also impeccably dressed in a blue pinstriped suit.

He walked within 3 feet of me.  I did not man up and say hello.  How do you succinctly tell someone how brilliant their work is (especially when he's clearly in a hurry)?  Every aspect of that man was designed for the theatre.  Shakespeare, Mamet, Albee, Miller.  He's done them all, and I would love to see him on stage.  That voice, that presence.

Ahh!  Oh well, perhaps I'll see him again.  He's Chancellor of Huddersfield Uni, and President of Huddersfield Town Academy (football).

Life, Frustrated

So I was, impressively enough, not even slightly hungover on Sunday, after my boozefest of 8+ drinks on Saturday.  As Adam was quick to point out, those drinks were spread out over about 8 hours--we are nothing if not thorough about our drinking--but even so, quite impressive, at least to my mind.  Sadly, it was shockingly expensive for the two of us to down 16 or 18 (maybe 17) drinks over the course of the evening, and I shudder to think what the caloric count was.  I will say that I was slightly weak on Sunday, but that was due to a distinct lack of water.  I must have drank some before I went to bed, but when I woke up about 3:30am, I chugged a litre's worth then, and again about 5:30.  And 7:00.  And so on.  Well, I suppose it wasn't a full litre each time, but at least half of one.  All I know is I filled the nalgene bottle up every time, though it wasn't always empty.

Tea went well.  The salmon I made for Tony went over a treat (not for Pam; she had chicken), and Adam and I both like the recipe, so yay.  If you care, salmon fillet with a bit of lemon juice, loads of brown sugar, and lots of dill (or tarragon, but we used dill).  Bake until done.  Do not overcook your fish.  You can also do it on the grill--extra tasty--but don't be so crazy as to think you can put it straight on the grill.  Sugar + Fire = Very Large, Very Smelly Fire - Fish.  Put foil down first, or a (soaked) cedar plank or something.  The carrots also went over a treat.  Pam, besides disliking fish, also dislikes cooked carrots, but she tried 2 out of politeness.  Or maybe because I told her we tossed them in butter and brown sugar.  Brown sugar makes everything better.

In the frustration realm, I'm dealing with the US side having all their goals written off due to shitty reffing, England probably advancing (thank His Noodly Appendage that I'm not working tomorrow), and the world's worst package delivery company outside of "that bloke over there."  I'm slightly less frustrated by that one now, since part of Adam's birthday present just arrived, but the Father's Day present Adam ordered for Tony is scheduled for redelivery--AGAIN--tomorrow.  They don't ring the flat, they don't leave delivery attempt slips, and they lie.  Tracking told me that yesterday, when there was always someone in the flat, they attempted delivery at 8:56pm, but were back in the Leed's depot by 9:01pm.  We do not live 5 minutes from Leeds.  Also, they're supposed to attempt deliveries between 7am and 7pm, so that's weird as well.  Sheesh.  Oh well, at least Adam's present is here.  We'll deal with Tony's again if it's not delivered tomorrow (again, someone should be here the whole day).  Sometimes I really hate how Titanic is set up.  We're supposedly "secure," but the doors never shut properly to activate the maglock, we have no stairs that we can use to get up to our flats (they're all fire stairs, so they're locked from inside the stairwells), which would be "secure" except that when the power goes out, the lifts shut down, meaning you can't get home unless someone propped open the stairwell doors (hi, I do).  Plus, we don't have a concierge desk like we were promised, so we can't get packages, because delivery people can't get in, and even if they do, they have no place to leave the packages.  Argh!

But I'm buying more beer making supplies tomorrow.  Yay!  Third batch should--if the heat breaks and then stays cooler for a week or two--go in the fermenter in a week and a half.  Go beer!

EDIT:  What the hell?!  Somehow, by virtue of a miracle, both England and the US are through to the next round.  Though I'm still pissed about the shitty reffing the US has faced.  Two perfectly valid goals, wiped off because--as I'm starting to think--the refs don't want the US through.  I don't see that being the case, but it's certainly starting to get questionable.

Kablooey Blam

In reference to my last post and Claudia's query:

Grosvenor Chemicals blew up last Sunday/Monday night.  About 1:05am, Adam and I were just crawling into bed, and through the open skylight (we would have heard this anyway) we heard I think three massive booms.  If you've ever been really close to a fireworks mortar when it's set off, that's what it sounded like.  About 5 minutes what sounded liked a car or house alarm started going off, but turned out to be the warning for the neighbors that a bunch of chemicals have been released into the air.  And didn't stop.  Period.  So I shut the skylight.  Which turned out to be a wise plan, even if our place was already nearly as warm as a greenhouse (since we have one giant window and we're on the top floor, this is more apt that you might realize).  I don't sleep well with noise (or heat, but noise trumps heat), and the air around here was foul smelling and tasting the next day, so I'm glad we didn't let it all in.

The company makes pesticides and glue-based products.  It took about 150 firefighters (at the peak) and at least two shifts to get it under control, and the river was absolutely filled with the foam they used.

I've heard rumors that it may have been arson, as the REALLY flammable and toxic stuff was moved away from where the fire started, but I have no actual further information on that part of it.

The local paper article and some pics can be found here.

Oh, and as a sidenote: Grosvenor Chemicals is no more than a ten minute walk from our place, and just on the other side of the playing fields (aka a couple of cricket/football fields) from Adam's work.  So like 1-2 minutes past Adam's work.  Plus, this is I believe the third time they've burned in the last 20 years, and they've broken any number of environmental and health/safety laws.

Stuff and things

I'm still editing the handbook of death. I have to finish it today, so I can get copies made tomorrow, and then copy my edits onto a clean version, and make copies of that. Yes, there is a lot of copying involved in this, but because it's so awful I want to make sure there are copies so passive-aggressive committee member can't pull an "I lost it" routine. I may also write up a quick outline for myself, and then write my own handbook. My guess is that I can whip one up in about 6 hours. According to passive-aggressive committee member, his took a week or so.

I think I'm depressed. I don't emotionally feel depressed, but I'm exhibiting a lot of the physical signs of depression, so I don't know. I'm not hugely worried about it, but it's mildly irritating. Too many naps, no interest in things, no energy. Though that said, I suppose I could have mono. Or just be bored. Oh well. I seem to be sorta snapping out of it. Whatever I was in.

Saturday Adam's godmother and her husband are taking Adam and I and his parents out to supper. I was very sad--they were planning on taking us to what looked like an amazing little bistro style place. Grow most of their own produce, at least semi-organic, seasonal menu. You know, my kind of place (the expensive kind). It looked delicious. Sadly however, the place was booked up (or else they had a change of heart when they heard how much I can eat), so instead we're going to an Italian place. Pam is apparently obsessed with it; she recommends it for any possible reason, which isn't a bad thing, but I'm not that fussed about Italian restaurants, unless I'm in Italy. But that's our Saturday. I have to meet new people, which will be mildly awkward, since I also have to be nice and social and can't swear--sheesh, all these limits!--but the ironic part is that effectively, Adam is also meeting new people. Yes, it's his godmother (one of them, I think he has two or three...which makes up for my none), but he doesn't think he's seen her for about ten years...or maybe since he was ten, so fifteen years, perhaps. She's supposed to be very nice, and it is very sweet of them to take us out to supper. Although I do have a vague feeling that I'll be getting the third-degree...

Next Thursday Mom and Dad will arrive in Manchester. They're on their own to get from the airport to the hotel, but it shouldn't be too bad, unless somebody gets a bug up their butt and decides to take a cab into the city (at rush hour, I might add). Since the airport is about 20km outside, that's expensive. And also totally unnecessary, as there is a train station right in the airport. European airports are very nice for things like that. I'll head out and meet them Friday morning, and we'll spend the day getting lost in Manchester. I mean shit, I don't know what there is to do in Manchester besides the IWM North, I just go in for things like shopping and fixing my computer...well, mostly fixing my computer, and shopping while I'm waiting for a bleeding train back. It's a big city, and has a couple of universities (and a couple of football teams, but practically no Americans have heard of Man City...it's always the Man U fans). But most important to Adam and I--besides the big, convenient, and international airport--is the fact that it's home to a few Prêt à Mangers, or what I prefer to think of as the greatest sandwich company in the world. So after I hang with my folks on Friday--or during--I'll hit a Pret up before they close and stock up on tasty sammiches and desserts and crisps. I'll even make sure to get enough to share with Adam :)

The following day is know as the Day of Terror. Mom and Dad are coming out to Linthwaite to see our place, but that's not so scary. Scary is what happens after--Mom and Dad meet Pam and Tony (and Mark, and possibly Mark's woman). Luckily, it will be at a pub, so Adam and I will be drunk. I'm sure it will all be fine, but then, it may all end up in flames. Paranoid? No, why do you ask? It's inevitable, however, since Pam, Tony, and Mark are all staying with Mom and Dad and Adam and I for the week surrounding the wedding. So at some point, Adam and I need to be having the talk with our various relatives about acceptable--but mostly unacceptable--topics of conversation. Racist comments had best be curtailed, or I will go ape-shit, Republican bashing needs to be curtailed (Dad...) because sadly, that gets lumped into racists comments in my mind, and politics needs to be avoided as well. If we avoid politics we can avoid a lot of racism and Republican bashing. I won't take religion off the table unless it looks like it's going to get heated....actually, yeah, that might also lead to Republican bashing). Kristan said to also take sex off the table, but frankly, if it somehow came up, I think I'd like to see the various awkward looks people get. Regardless, I think Adam and I have a pretty good idea of where the conversation is going to go, so while he and I don't really want to hear it all again (about travelling and food and such), at least it should be mostly safe ground, if boring.

Right, enough procrastinating on my end. Back to the editing, kitchen cleaning (let's just say eeek!), and exercising.

Of Committees, Drama, and Editing

or

"I'd call him a douchebag, but he'd probably misspell it."

Lord knows I have a tendency toward the dramatic, particularly when it comes to telling stories, on my blog or otherwise. Drama makes for better storytelling. Bear that in mind, but also note that in this story, I am not the dramatic one. No, this time, I left the drama queens to themselves.

As you may or may not know, I screwed myself into becoming a member of the Titanic Mill Residence Committee. That was, admittedly, totally my bad, and I should have known better than to open my mouth. In my defense, I was trying to find a way to weasel out of being a member of TMRC, but no one else opened their mouths (smart people) so that's where I screwed up. OK, that drama, that's totally me, but it's also just ancillary to the main story.

Since the elections at the July meeting, the TMRC has consisted of a Chair, a Vice-Chair, a Secretary, and a Vice-Secretary, along with four general members. The Chair is well-meaning, if brusque, generally set in his ways, and not really open to change, but he will give you the shirt off his back and make you feel like you've done him a favour. That said, he is difficult to get along with. The Vice-Chair claims that she's got years of PR experience, but just because you work with people doesn't mean you can relate with them or get along with them. She's incredibly irritating and pushy, she tries to dominate conversations, and very much has her own agenda for the TMRC, one that, while not necessarily bad, should not be the primary focus of the TMRC. As a point of reference, TMRC was created to ensure that stuff in the building works properly. At their insistence, the position of Caretaker was created, so the communal areas now get cleaned. Because there are so many problems with building maintenance (like there isn't any), the committee works to make sure things like that happen. The Vice-Chair, however, wants TMRC to be a social and community building group, and thinks that we waste too much time on trying keep the building from falling down around our ears, when we could have a garden party instead. That's a bit of an exaggeration, but frankly, not much.

Right there is where our biggest personality clash lies. The Chair and Vice-Chair hate each other. The Secretary (an awesome woman, who seems to be very good at her job, and is very genuine and nice) and the Vice-Secretary (an older gentleman who has a wicked sense of humor, and absolutely no interest in social activities) are both walking the middle line, though the Vice-Secretary tends to side with the Chair more vocally, while the Secretary works with all parties (but teds to side with the Chair, just more democratically).

Complicating the hatred the Chair and VC feel for each other is a committee member, who seems to think that the VC shits gold. That's fine, but instead of just two people sniping at each other every meeting, now three people are. And the third person is also sending passive-aggressive emails to the Chair, complaining about how the Chair treats the VC. While there is some room for valid complaints, that's not the way to handle it. Neither is everyone yelling at each other, like what happened at the last meeting.

Where I come in to all of this starts in the September meeting. The passive-aggressive member and the VC wanted to write a Resident Handbook. Essentially, this would be a guide providing basic information on how stuff in the apartments and the building works--where the rubbish and recycling bins are, how the fresh air and extraction systems work, what to do about TV and internet, etc. Making a pretty good guess that it would never happen, I volunteered to edit and compile all the information, if other people wrote it. And I was right: it never happened.

Until this month. Passive-aggressive committee member wrote a handbook. He then gave copies to at least some of the committee, myself included, to look over and return to him ASAP. It probably isn't the worst written thing I've ever read, but it's damn close. I don't think he spell-checked it (he does however, have auto-correct turned on in Word, which is creating a load of other problems), he copy/pasted stuff from Wikipedia into the document without citing it (not technically illegal, but immoral and lazy), he doesn't have any consistency in any type of formatting, and his grasp of English grammar, capitalization, and punctuation is worse than a Japanese law student (I know, because I edited a paper from a Japanese law student while I was at Leicester. English wasn't her native language, but you wouldn't know it to read her paper.). I'm pretty certain this guy's native language is English, but his writing implies that it is not. In fact, that was the first thing Adam asked when he started to read it.

So I now have a copy to look over, offer suggestions, and return. It's 12 pages long, and I've only gotten through the first four pages. The cover page alone has about 10 edits on it, and it's only three sentences long. What makes this worse is that I'm only copy-editing, not looking at the content, unless it's so glaringly wrong I can't let it slide (there a bunch of those, too). I understand that everyone makes mistakes, but there are the occasionally mistakes and the combination of just bad writing and laziness in self-editing. Even as a rough draft I could never produce anything so bad, and I would certainly look it over before sending it out to others to edit--that's just common courtesy.

So now I'm stuck with editing it. I was approached today by the Chair (on behalf of himself, the Secretary, and the VS) to see if I was editing it. I said yes, and got an exclamation of relief in reply. All three of them think it's absolutely awful as well. We also all figure that passive-aggressive committee member and the VC will think we're ganging up on them, but the fact of the matter is, it sucks. It's really, really bad. Luckily, I'll finish my edit in the next day or so (I can only work on it for so long--I'm not getting paid, and it makes my brain bleed if I stare at it too long), keep a copy for myself, give a copy back to passive-aggressive committee member, and pass another copy on to the Chair, so he can make copies and hand out my edits to the other committee members. And then I will fly back to the states, and let them all fight it out. I'm happy to communicate by email, but I think passive-aggressive committee member will be so upset that I've trashed his work (I'm being nice, mind you, but I'm doing an editor's job), that he'll either send me passive-aggressive emails, or his just ignore me and/or my edits.

Wish I had a red pen. I need to buy one. But in the meantime, I'll leave you with some unedited excerpts of what I have to deal with (all italics, bolding, and such are what I was presented with, not my additions). Points to anyone who can point out everything wrong. Yes, some of it's subjective, but still...

Internal re - cycle cooker hoods, although fitted with stainless steel fats filter; which can be washed in hot soapy water; all cooker hoods should also have a carbon filter fitted to prevent excess grease from collecting around the motor; which could lead to a fire starting.

The windows in the building are cleaned by a company named Sparkling glass. The windows will be cleaned periodically. Those apartments which have Balconies do not give access to the workmen, so they will not clean Balcony windows, as they pose risk to the work men. Separate arrangements with sparkling glass can be make to clean balcony windows, however this will at a charge to you.

Sunday Review Postponement

I've got way too much crap going on over the next few weeks to do reviews. If I get chances, I'll throw some up, but the only really solid thing I have in my head right now is Gran Torino, and that'll proably slip out of my head if I don't get to it soon. More news later on, but now it's bedtime. I'd still like to exercise, but when the house is 80F/27C at 11:40pm, that's not gonna happen. It's raining in Linthwaite...wish I were there to run up and shut the skylights and stand on the balcony in the rain. Wish it were raining here. Blargh. I hate this heat--after Death Valley, anything over 2% humidity (hell, 1%) is too damn high.

Hopefully I'll get my act together enough to post some news in a few days. Got to get sorted though, first.

I'm not sure what happened...

You know how I said I'd be able to avoid being on the Titanic Mills Residents Committee? Yeah...I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but I'm now a committee member. Not an officer, but a member. Shit.

Three people volunteered to be part of the four non-officer members. Silly me, speaking up in an awkward silence. I figured this way I could look like I wanted to help out, but was unavailable. "I'd be willing to help out, but I'm flying back to the States next week. I don't know when I'll be back, and even after I do come back, I won't be here for very long. Adam is still working nights, so he can't come in my stead, and we haven't resigned our lease yet, so we might not be staying."

Good enough for them. I'm on the damn committee. I'm not entirely sure where I screwed up, other than by opening my mouth. I know they say never volunteer, but that's what I was doing--NOT volunteering. Oh well, it's going on my CV.

Sheesh.

Review still to come. After exercise.

Argh...forgotten again!

So once again I've forgotten about Sunday Reviews. That may have had something do with the roast duck breast for tea last night. Ooops. I doubt I'll have time to write up a review today, since I have to go to the Titanic Mill Residence Committee meeting tonight. I've been to two of them, and they take about 3-3.5 hours. This one will be either much longer or much shorter since it's the Annual General Meeting and we need to elect a new committee. I don't want to go, but I said I would...the good news is that I can easily get out of a nomination to the committee (if that happens) since I'm flying back to the states in 9 days. I totally support the committee, but since I don't know what decisions Adam and I will be making about living arrangements over the next 6-12 months...yeah. And I won't be here for large chunks of the next six months anyway, it doesn't matter.

So yes, I shall try to write a review tonight, or certainly tomorrow. I'm debating between a couple of movies, a couple of books, or a video game...hmm...if you actually have a preference, your choices are Superman Returns, Zodiac, Wizard's First Rule, The Handmaid's Tale, or LEGO Indiana Jones. Post in the comments if you care (I get emails now, and so know when people say things :) ).

Update

Right, so I decided against knocking on the door of the woman who lives across the hall from me.  It could come across as confrontational, and I don't think that would be the best thing.  Truth be told, I also wussed out.  Not totally though--I wrote her a note this morning, and put it in her mailbox this afternoon on my way out.  Though I can't deny that I didn't really want to "confront" her, I still think this might be the best way (and it may not be); she knows that I'm concerned and I care, but I don't want to make her more uncomfortable.  Hopefully this puts the ball in her court.

I will continue to keep an eye and an ear out, and if things continue or get worse, I will take a more active role.  I can't get out of my head the number of things he did and said that screamed "abuser!" to me.

Sometimes you just want to take a day off...

I've been watching Sports Night with Adam the past few days, and he's been really enjoying it, which makes me happy on two levels; Sports Night itself is a great show, and Aaron Sorkin, the creator, also created The West Wing, which I also dearly love.  But the reason I bring this up is because a character from Sports Night, Dan, mentions at one point that he, from time to time, feels the need to take a day off from actively making sure he and others do the "right thing."  That's poorly phrased, and gives neither Sorkin's writing nor Josh Charles's acting credit, but at the moment I know how he feels.

I think the woman across the hall from me is trying to escape from a domestic violence situation.  I don't know if it's physical or emotional abuse (or both), or if it's not just in my head.  Though I have a hard time believing it's just in my head when a guy pounds on her door at midnight (Adam was--and is--in bed) and yells, "I can be as loud as I need."  Then he started begging/pleading (his words) with her to let her in because he just wanted to talk.  She must have been on the other side of the door talking to him, because at one point he said "I'll talk nicely."  Ultimately, she let him in.  I couldn't hear anything after that point, but he did leave, muttering something (I don't remember what).  I couldn't see her, but she did come out less than five minutes later (and back about five minutes after that).  I couldn't see any evidence of physical abuse, but this woman--the one time I saw her in the lift--looks like life has beaten her down (granted, some people do just look like that, but...).

Now, there are two people I know read this blog regularly who can tell me with absolute certainty if I'm being overly paranoid or not (and I'm pretty damn sure I know what they'll say, but I still want to hear).  One is my mother, one is her friend (and I consider her my friend as well) Barbara.  So, please, if either of you reads this before 4am your time, Tuesday May 5th, please send me an email with any suggestions.  Because, much as I would like to not get involved, I think this guy is a son of a bitch, and my neighbor (who I really haven't met) should know that I'm willing to help if she needs or wants it.  People who pound on doors at midnight in apartment complexes with interior corridors make me worry enough, but to add yelling through a door adds to my worry tremendously.

Right, so any suggestions are welcome, particularly of what I should say to this woman.  I'd love to take a day off from caring, but I cannot and will not walk away from potential domestic abuse, even if I would walk away from a jerk who potentially woke up half the floor.

And to irritate me further, this FUBARd my novel writing this evening, as I spend a goodly amount of time peering out the peephole to make sure I didn't hear anything that was going to warrant my pounding on her door and making damn sure I woke everyone up.  I suppose it's bad that I'm not afraid of people hitting me.  But then I believe in retaliation of the worst forms--legal and finanacial.  Still...do people who feel as though they're morally superior (in certain situations) also feel invicible in those situations?

Dial up may very well be faster...

It certainly would have been faster when I was living in Death Valley.  Satellite broadband my ass.  Nothing broad about it.  Bit bandy, maybe.

Anyways...

We don't have satellite broadband here.  Which may be my one saving grace right now.  What we do have is a continuing and overwhelming hatred of British Telecom, and we still need to file a bunch of complaints with them and various oversight/monitoring/conflict resolution companies.

Thursday we went live with our Virgin Media DSL connection.  We tried to get cable broadband, but because a) we live in an apartment complex ("Mill conversion" actually, and think small condos in actuality, but half of them are being rented out) and b) we live in the BFE (hi, welcome to Yorkshire, there's a sheep.  have fun, but avoid the cattle) cable wasn't an option in any way, shape, or form.  No matter the provider, EVERYONE here has painfully slow service, supposedly because we're far away from the {mumble} of BT.  I think it's more directly because BT sucks sweaty, feces covered monkey balls on their best days.

I mentioned we had Virgin Media though, so what gives with bitching about BT, you may ask (or you may not, but regardless, I shall tell you).  BT controls all telecom in the country.  They have you by the short curly ones, because if you need a phone line, they are the only people you can talk to.  And if you need to use that phone line, you have to pay a line rental fee.  That runs you nearly £12 per month.  And you have to sign a 12 month contract.  Sometimes after the year is up, your provider will absorb your line rental cost for you, but think about that, and then the costs of the other providers.  That said, BT is no cheaper, and was in fact quite a lot more expensive.  We've got a great deal going with Virgin, even factoring in an additional £12/month.

Well, we have a great deal with one exception.  Because we're far away from the BT hub/trunk/whatever, we have SLOW service.  But--and here's the kicker--the further away from said whatever you are, the more you have to pay for your service.  So we actually will be paying MORE for the priviledge of watching dead snails go past us on the web.  Go us!

When I say slow service, I mean sites like Kingdom of Loathing, which is a text-based game with minimal graphics, have problems loading.  Google searches rountinely fail because they can't connect.  I can't watch Yahoo! videos.  It turns out I can watch YouTube if I load it up in Firefox, not Safari, because the connection is so bad it breaks Safari.  And the videos routinely freeze in Firefox.  I have no idea if I can do video chat with my family, but I do know that iChat's text messaging crapped out on me several times when I was talking to them the other night.  If the basic messaging service dies, how will video fare?

Supposedly our service will get a little faster over the next few days, as Virgin figures out the max speed they can give up without blowing up our phone line.  We're paying for up to 8 megs of speed,and unlimited downloads, but most people report getting less than 3 megs, and usually less than 2.  As a side note, unlimited downloads are incredibly important, because every site you visit adds to your download amount, and 10 gigs isn't that much if you use the web heavily.  Even if you don't download movies or music (legal/iTunes also counts toward that limit) think about how many Yahoo! videos or YouTube clips you watch, let alone how many Google or IMDb searches you perform.  To which I say eek!  I'm always looking stuff up.

Right, so I'm back and live.  Ish.  I still have to finish my saga of getting to England, and the move.  But that, at least, in a nutshell, is why I hate BT.  And your random techie knowledge for the day (note that I'm not really a techie.  For useful information, see other people).

Off to finish making my chicken soup and dumplings, and try to get more than a couple of paragraphs written on my novel.  Novel sounds so much more pretentious than book, does it not?

Soon...

We should finally have internet at our place soon.  Then I have much to post, including further rants on Delta airlines, and more importantly, the absolute hatred I have towards British Telecom.  BT will be hearing about their incompetence soon.

New Home

After much complaining and trying to get people at the letting agent's to talk to each other (or at least to us, and then we'd pass on information), Adam and I are moving tomorrow.  We found this out today.  Thankfully, he got both tomorrow and Monday off from work, so we have 4 days in which to move, although we're getting the van tomorrow.  So really, we have one day to move, and 3 days to go "oh fuck, we forgot that.  And that.  AND that..."

We don't have a bed yet, and I'm getting advice thrown at me from all sides.  Less so from my folks, but in part that's because I don't see or talk to them every day.  People tend to forget that a) I'm a lot closer to 30 than to 20 and b) I have actually lived on my own before (for several years, even!), and been completely and totally responsible for myself, and I've even moved a couple of times.  Yeah, I'm capable.  And so is Adam.

That said, yes, we need some help moving, and we need to borrow some things, and if we need other help, we'll definitely ask--and have.  It's hard to do this on our own, without a car and such, but we are big boys and girls (or singular of each, really).

And now I need to get back to it.  We'll have internet at the apartment eventually, but I don't know when that'll happen.  Soon, hopefully.  I don't like not having web access...