It started so well but has gone badly wrong.
I feel worn out by wrangling and chasing and cajoling. Everyone around me is creating a massive shitty pile of stress built out of sheer professional inadequacy. Gas men, agents, tenants, even some work contacts are getting in on the act. And they're usually the more reliable ones.
Would the gas men please turn up, or at least return my calls?
And it would be nice to think their estimates are actually based on genuine equations of measurable service and parts rather than random figures plucked from the air because Londoners are gullible enough to swallow most prices. I've had estimates that range from £120 to over £300 for the same job. Incidentally, a job that R conducted last year in Hereford and cost him a whole £75.
Isn't that ridiculous?
And when you book them in at such vastly inflated prices, at least they could have the decency to turn up?
Would the agents return my calls, do their jobs and find me a tenant?
I thought paying an agent handsomely for them to let your flat was supposed to take the headache out of it? I've had to appoint a second agent, because the first one was no good. I'm now on the verge of appointing a third. There must be a better way. But there isn't. So the agents all get to earn money for talking nonsense and driving funky cars around town, badly.
At least in advertising we don't do the funky cars thing...
And would the would-be tenants please turn up for their fucking appointments?
Do you know the effort we put into 'hidying' the house every single time one of you is due round?
Clothes fresh from the wash but not yet put away get shoved in the bedlinen trunk. Papers and books get shoved in desk drawers and slid under the bed. Stuff gets piled into cupboards, cushions get plumped, hallways get hoovered, and I even have gone so far as to make fresh coffee and spray the bathroom and bedroom with a subtle bergamot room scent which I picked up in Paris for some ridiculous reason.
When would I ever use something like that?
Now, it seems...
Or, if they love the flat so much they almost put in an offer but retract on the basis that they have asthma and the property is on a fairly busy road, then why, please, did you bother coming to see it in the first place?
Everyone just seems to be getting in my way, not doing what they're supposed to be doing, or being deliberately antagonistic and unhelpful.
When these people are strangers and have no value from knowing me I understand. It's a London Thing. Abhorrent but true. But when they are people that I am paying a lot of money too, or people I have bent over backwards for on so many occasions myself, I really, really resent it.
So, no, spotting fashion designers and watching archaic military rituals at buckingham palace on your way into work does not necessarily guarantee a good day.
But I'm moving to Uganda so they can all fuck off.