An englishman in Paris

mercredi, novembre 19, 2008

I've finally taken the plunge .. noooo have no fear, oh faithful reader of one, not 'that' plunge

Way back in the month that we of the misogynist persuasion call 'Tit Monday' (March, then) the owners of my appartment decided to bail out and get rich before they got too burnt

Since then, on a regular basis, i've had my fair share of ill-advised people hot-footing it around for a butchers

I've been through the whole gamut of no-hopers and downright chancers

I've seen the long, the short and the tall (bless 'em all)

To whit, a few of the most memorable ones :

The perky, spaniel eyed guy, who's dying to live out his adolescent dreams but is crashingly brought back down to earth with a bump by she-who-must-be-obeyed (his woman, who evidently wears the trousers *or trasaaahs if you're a Londoner*)

There's been the wallflower type chick, who's parents desperately want to get shot of her and out of the house before she does them in with her banalities or drives them to apoplexly with her boringness

Then there was the gay couple, already arguing about who's space this is actually going to be, actually

Anyhow, the first straw that made this particular camel go 'oh i say, steady on old boy' came last week when the estate agent decided to pay me an un-announced visit...

.. at about nine thirty

.. with two petted lipped waifs and strays, hoping to visit my cradle of luurve *cue Barry White*

... just as i'd settled down after eating, to watch my favorite Desperate femmes au foyer, draped only in a towel, with one hand nonchalantly scratching the knacker region - not a pretty sight at the best of times, i grant you, what with them there hairy spindly legs all askew ...

I told them all to bog off and to make an appointment, like all of us other grown ups do - i'm not running an an open bar here .. what's wrong whitch'all ?

On monday, this week, the agency called me at work: they wanted to organise a visit for tonight at five-thirty

They just didn't understand that i kinda w.o.r.k until at least six ... six thirty ... seven ...

There then ensued a sort of 'discussion between deaf people' - the thick chick on the phone just couldn't/wouldn't understand how it is that that i can't just 'down tools' to be on site at her every whim and envy

"But we can't see the daylight at seven in the evening" she complained "That's because, stupido , there is no daylight to speak of after four in the afternoon at this time of year ..."

(straw too much - 1/2)

Then last night, the owners sent me an e-mail saying that the dreaded french poll tax had been sent to 'them' instead of me ...

I've got a rake of money to pay out just before Christmas ...

(Straw on back +3)
....................................................................

At the dead of 2am, when all is quiet and deadly silent, i sent an e-mail saying that it was all un peu trop ... and upon what kind of terms could we possibly, feasibly, call it a day ? (in a typically 'english gentlemanly' way of doing things)

Until now i've had no news (they're probably got the square lined paper out and are fretting over the abacus)

Never-the-less, it'll soon be time for me to say goodbye to my Austin Powers Stylie, chick magnet pad

I'll be a bit (very) sad ...

But upwards and onwards as we say

*or 'down and out'* if your last name is 'Orwell' and your first is 'George'

:'(

Libellés :

The current mood of damiel at www.imood.com
damiel0000@yahoo.fr

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