51 pounds, if you’re getting technical. That’s the same as a ticket to Disneyland Paris. Right, fuck the Teacup ride. Let’s do this. I’ll fill you in on my week.
Sunday night, the taps in the house I’m lodging in in Shepherds Bush started gurgling. I didn’t notice, Alex my flatmate did. Alex is incredible – I thought the TV in the living room had been broken for the last two weeks while she’s been away in Nigeria, but then she came back and showed me that I just needed to change the batteries in the remote. Honestly, game changing stuff.
On Monday night, the toilet gurgling got worse, and also there was this eggy smell coming from the sink in the kitchen, which I just assumed were Christy’s farts, who was over to rehearse with me. He then asked me if I needed to go to the toilet, and we both worked out the smell was actually coming from neither of us.
Finally on Tuesday night, our downstairs toilet exploded. Exploded. Out into the downstairs floor, across the hallway. The kitchen sink also exploded with poo, too – which says a lot about Christy’s farts. It was everywhere. My flatmate Gerard – a 60 year old criminal barrister who, on my first day in the house, warned me that the area was “very ethnic” and not to bother recycling because we sell it all to China – was the first to discover the gates of a faecal-based hell had opened up in our house.
The plumber came yesterday morning. I let him in and showed him where the toilet was. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea, he then told me I definitely should not be drinking the water, so I laughed, said “yeah I know” and pretended like I hadn’t already had three cups of tea that morning. About an hour later he shouted up to me that it was sorted. I shouted back “amazing” and closed my 14 tabs’ worth of research into Cholera.
I came downstairs. “I don’t clean it up though” he said, with a smile and off he went. I then spent four hours cleaning up pellets of shit.
We can’t have shoes in the house, and I’m so anxious about abiding by the rules of the house that a lot of that time was spent working out which one was more important – mildly irking my landlord, or treading in actual poo. I decided to go with wearing shoes. It was close though.
I’m at a weird stage. I’ve moved out of my mum’s house, I’ve started a new job. Things are moving forwards, whether I want them to or not. I went home to see my mum last weekend and we went for a pizza. It was nice to see her, she was kind enough to wait at least twenty seconds before asking my opinion on the ISIS bride.
About a minute into the conversation, she put her favourite song on in the car and turned it up loud so I had to stop talking. It was “don’t you worry ‘bout a thing” by Stevie Wonder, used in my family’s favourite film, Hitch. Fair enough really, it’s a great song and I’ve not stopped listening to it since, despite the fact it was now being used as a mechanism to drown me out.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this financially devastating blog. To make it worth it, here’s a link to a cat answering the phone which I’ve had to watch on repeat to get through the day, and also a link to Nelly’s Hot in Herre – an absolute banger if there ever was one. There’s more I could tell you – I wear glasses now (what) and I like hummus (fuck), I still feel sad (NO!), I’ve pretended to be in an online relationship with my sketch partner for a show that’s caused so much drama it probably won’t happen anymore (oh dear), I visited a sex therapist last year (tell us more), I’ve started being more open in public about the fact I like both girls and boys (we know), and-
Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing
Don’t you worry ’bout a thing, mama