Day 84: I Am Still Not Sure Whether My Neighbour Is A Twat Or Not

One day, a twat; the next, not a twat.

Strengths

Paints front gate without being asked
Keen to weed the front garden
1 x use of washing machine = 1 x bottle of (admittedly a bit shit) free wine
Generally cheerful
Clean
Tells me my food smells nice
Buys new front doormat without being asked

Weaknesses

Cuts down MY plants in MY front garden without asking me
Stamps about on his technically-illegal laminate floorboards
Plays fuck-awful music (Keane, Coldplay, Zero 7, unidentifiable 'dance' music)
Slams the front door
Lives with a cretin
Is 27, works in the City and owns a £250,000 flat
Knocks on my door shitfaced at 1.30 in the morning, eats toast, drinks the can of beer he has brought with him, tells me my back garden is 'a disgrace and embarrassing', smokes H's fags, is rude about my peanut butter and tells me to get the windows cleaned
Looks a bit weird, like a baby with an old man's face on
Wears weird pants when he does sport
Owns at least 15 stripey shirts.

I will strike a deal with him. If he stops being an annoying twat, I will allow him to carry on living. I don't think I'm being unfair.

Day 84: I Have A Conversation With A Friend Who Is Emigrating

Her: I like his face.
Me: So do I.
Her: Some people just don't have enough face. He has enough face.
Me: Mmm.

Day 83: I Am Chemical

A dear friend (who is very lovely, and has eyes like Minstrels and long brown hair), is emigrating to Australia. She is not a convict, but has to move out tomorrow. We have just spent five hours moving things from her flat to someone else's in Trellick Tower (smells of cabbage), and cleaning. Today, I have:

1. Breathed in some Mr Muscle oven cleaner, twice
2. Accidentally licked a Parazone bleach cube whilst opening it with my teeth
3. Squirted Cillit Bang limescale remover in my face
4. Wiped down my sweaty brow with a Flash bathroom wipe
5. Poured bleach on my foot
6. Got some unspeakably strong kitchen de-greaser in my eye, which made me cry.

Apparently you can do all cleaning ever with a lemon and a pint of brown vinegar, but they didn't have any in the shops.

My neighbour just came down. He is very nice indeed*, and has bought a new mat for the front door and some paint to paint the gate with. I looked at him and said: " What gate? We've got a gate? WHERE? A gate?". I feel a bit weird.


* I wrote a mean post about people like him last night that was lost and then found, but I take it all back so I'm not going to post it. It was shit anyway. Although I do stand by what I said about Lily Allen.

Day 83: I Have Lost My Post

They weren't good, so in a way I'm quite happy. There were two of them: a) Piss off, Lily Allen; and b) My Neighbour Is A Twat.

They were there went I went to bed, but have since vanished. I haven't turned them into drafts or anything like that. They're just not there.

I think there is a Thing that is wiping out bad posts on my blog. This is only the beginning. By the time its work is done, there will only be one left (gum/ladygarden incident), and everyone's read that already. Still, there's always Croydon, if only I could bring myself to think about it.

In the meantime, I am going to Notting Hill to move to some plants to Hackney. This blog may not exist by the time I get back, and if the worst happens, well - it's been real, and you're all beautiful, beautiful people. Don't ever forget that, yeah? Reach for the stars. Be who you wanna be. Be YOU. I love you all.

Day 82: I Find The Lollipop People

I didn't stay in bed in the end. I drew my fringe back on with a pencil and went to the gymnasium instead. I walked up stairs and down roads that weren't going anywhere. Then I cycled and rowed nowhere for a bit, and picked up weights and moved them around a bit. I counteracted my exertion by sitting gormlessly in the steam room marvelling at the amount of sweat I produce (and I'm not talking about the sweat that spurts from every part of me in the steam room itself).

I am constantly astonished by how much I sweat. According to Anuja-The-Less-Irritating-Since-I-Am-Thinner personal trainer, sweating is no sign of your fitness level; nor is going red in the face. Which is just as well, otherwise I would be technically dead.

Anyway, after two hours spent in Holmes Place Streatham (I found an enormous scab under the rowing machine last week, and someone's snot wiped on the treadmill; otherwise, it's great), I went to Croydon to meet a dear friend for luncheon (of which more later; I simply don't know where to start).

I haven't seen a lollipop lady since I was a tiny tiny child. In fact, as (according to my mother), I have False Memory Syndrome, I wasn't entirely sure they existed at all. But they do, and they are all in West Norwood.

I saw one, and thought, oh look, a Lollipop Lady. She looks nice.

Then I saw this one. (From the front she looks like a marmoset.)










That's a bit rum, I thought, but no matter; it is merely a Coincidence.

Then - seconds later - I saw a third, but this time it was a gentleman lollipop lady (I assume they should now be called Lollipop Persons. You can see his lollipop there on the left. I was moving at the time.)









I am very, very confused. Do Croydon Council spend all their council tax on Lollipop People? Do the Lollipop People live together in a house, and spend their evenings polishing their lollipops whilst watching public information films? Is there a Lollipop Person Training Course, run every other weekend in West Norwood Town Hall? Do they do practice runs on each other in the carpark?

These and other questions (e.g., why is Andrew Lloyd Weber?), will have to remain unanswered, I am afraid. But let me know if you see a Lollipop Person. I'm still not entirely sure they exist, despite the photographic evidence.