beesknees

I'm a bit sad about Prince Phillip's death today. Not because I particularly support any sort of monarchy, but because it sort of feels like the first chunk of concrete has maybe fallen out of the dam and pretty soon we'll be faced with none but Charles and Boris to represent the UK.

Okay, that, but mostly because he sort of reminded me of my dashing, grumpy, occasionally jaw-droppingly inappropriate grandfather, who died a few years ago in his 90s. Goodbye, all you That Kind Of Old Dudes.

Earlier this week I was unexpectedly dialed into a Teams call while eating a very messy homemade burrito in my right hand. I, a dumbass, instantly decided the right course of action was to accept it as a video call because then I could gesture for patience while smoothly putting on my gaming headphones one-handed.

Readers, I did not smoothly put them on one-handed. I dropped them. Twice. And almost splattered myself with burrito innards...more than twice. It was a solid 45 seconds of Buster Keaton webcam action before I finally clomped the dang things over my ears.

At least I made a colleague laugh like a drain. And didn't drop my burrito. Go me!

It’s odd being back on DW. Retro. Never really got a foothold here; not through any fault of DW, but because my real-life/LJ friends had already shifted to FB as LJ declined and I wasn’t in a good zone to reach out and make new friends here. My extended family infested FB and had found my first and then second LJ blog (shakes fist at that one cousin, unwisely trusted); privacy was my priority, even if that meant I stopped connecting with anyone new, being findable to anyone who’d want to reconnect.

Don’t really remember my set-up here. It’s still very, eh, 2002? Whenever I started off with deadjournal in my goth days, before I even had an invite to LJ. Before tags had any use beyond your own categorisation, certainly not for others to search through, and thus were individualised, silly, and opaque to the point of meaningless outside your little circle. Sure, I could organise them en masse, change them to something sensible, but this is also kind of a museum of my brain’s shape in 2006.

And my icons are moody! The 2000s were so grimdark! And I, eh, not sure how to express the little box I was crammed in that I couldn’t present myself as functional and even consistently cheerful. Anyway, they don’t represent the giant goofball weirdo I am most of the time now.

And yup, I miss “likes”. Got low spoons, massive commenting anxiety…I’m reading, y’all! I assume you are too. Still miss the little ticks of solidarity, giving and getting.

None of this is meant to put down DW. I’m glad it’s here. It’s a nice space. Just weird that blogging and its digital-life descendants have existed so long that getting even this close to my roots in it feels alien.

An observation: both the solicitor firms we've been dealing with (one to renew the lease, one to sue about the pipes) had quite extensive and clauses in their contracts with us about the responsibility of their clients to respond quickly to emails.

Both firms send nigh-unreadable emails with such poor grammar and spelling that, combined with their many attachments, gmail interprets them as phishing scams and banishes to spam or quarantine.

Coincidence?

Been in a cranky funk the last few days. Probably just cold snowy weather, lockdown craziness, and quitting the booze again. That's not actually as dramatic an announcement as it sounds; regularly drinking a beer or two in the evening is just too many empty calories when I'm boredom-baking and not able to exercise much.

My brain's compass point has just drifted back to negative directions; I'm worried about the pipes, the kids, my job contract, even things that aren't problems yet like the weather shifting back to warm and the estate returning to perpetual-noise-antisocial mode. For all I rolled my eyes at CBT, at least those habits are kicking in - altho I doubt my counsellor would have entirely approved of "Calm yer tits, girl, you're being extra for no damn reason" as a proper cycle breakdown. Eh, if it helps, it helps.

Had a break here due to a sudden loud-ass snap and stink of ozone; turns out partner's power supply unit in his computer's gone out dramatically, no saving it. Argh...one more line item on this month's lean budget. Ah well.

At least I finally finished this dress after working on it in bits for weeks. Will take photos at some point - it's simple, fits fine, not in love with the neckline but eh. For a summer dress it'll do! Back to skirts, I think, planning a couple short half-circle ones, also for summer. Low-key annoyed at sewing blogs and tutorials that really often assume only wee twee girls are reading - like this tool, which gives me and my 38-inch waist:


rather than "Here's how to cut your fabric in panels rather than on the fold!"

*eyeroll*

When we first moved to London, friends back home would ask if I saw the queen “a lot”. Like, not if I’d seen her at all, but often, as if royalty makes a habit of popping around miserable studio flats in Zone 2 to split a packet of jaffa cakes over instant coffee. I might have been a bit derisive in my responses vis-a-vis the real-life existence of said royalty and the impossibility of encountering such mythical creatures in ordinary spaces.

Yesterday, I took my first full vacation day…in order to meet with the agency at the old flat for inspection and key handover. Boo. Got there a couple hours early, because I don’t know. Raccoons might have gotten in and I’d have to frantically clear away all evidence of their advanced civilization. I brought a book, and figured, if there were no raccoons, I’d hang out with our now-former neighbour for a while. Not five minutes in, keys rattled in the lock. Open the door to find two polish guys intent on removing the furniture.

Had an exceedingly polite standoff: “We’re to take all furniture.”

“’Fraid I can’t letcha, not before 2:30 when it’s scheduled to be inspected. Says right here: ‘You will be charged for all damaged or missing furniture.’ So that’s not happening.”

We both tried to call the agency, which had all its phones turned off for lunch, and made polite conversation. They told me they didn’t live around here; bad neighbourhood, they wouldn’t live in it. We waved goodbye like friends as they retreated to regroup.

Ten minutes later, ratting at the lock again. Flung open the door, shocking the hell out of another blueshirt with a box of tools. “This place is supposed to be vacant!”

He was there to install a fire alarm. I pointed at the hardwired alarm over the stove. He looked at his fresh new fire alarm in its plastiform cradle and decided, since they were damn well paying him for the work ticket, he’d hang and shoot the shit a while. He told me he lives in West London, that this neighborhood’s shit and he’d never live here.

He bid adieu and I paced for a decade or so and the agency called about a minute before inspection was due, finally responding to my voicemail demanding some ‘splaining and right quick. Mr Oily, oh it was just a mistake, they’d thought we were fully moved out, just a misunderstanding, no harm meant, of course we won’t be charged for the unrelated maintenance they still hadn’t completed, did I think they were some fly-by-night place?

The rep showed up ten minutes late, an Irish woman who spat out an unending stream of half-formed sentences as if she didn’t want anyone else to get a word in edgewise. No, we’d left it so clean, well they had to get it professionally cleaned, it’s in the contract they do that, but since we’d left it so spic and span they’d only take £70 out of the deposit instead of the full cost, and we’d have it right in our account in a week’s time! Because we’re so great! And they’re so great! And no one tried to lumber anyone with a massive furniture charge!

She babbled that it must be a lovely flat in the winter, close and warm and cozy as it was this airless June afternoon. Tho as a woman she’d hate that scary back entrance, past that bar and its "beer garden" with the punching machine. And really, the whole neighbourhood was pretty bad. She certainly wouldn’t live here. It broke her heart to see the way people lived, in her agency’s flats. She took my keys and I left, looking back once, annoyed Washington hadn't answered my knock to say goodbye, his bike's right there.

That's that, I guess. We're southies now.

(And it's so much better.)