In hot water...

When I got back into town on Thursday night I decided to fortify myself with a few tasty beverages at my favourite bar, before heading into the Armageddon wrought by The Flatmate.

There is a barman at this establishment who is truly wise. His name is apparently Bob, an appellation so superbly incongruous that it can only be real. Bob is about six and a half feet tall and appears to be part brown bear. He has dreadlocks and the sort of beard that gives you the impression that he knows the whereabouts of a significant quantity of doubloons and is handy with a cutlass.

Bob and I discussed, amongst other things, the situation with the boiler. He suggested that I take it apart myself and try to fix it, rather than pay a god-awful amount of money to some thieving degenerate with a monkey wrench.

Six pints of Veltins later found me trying to prize open the sensitive innards of the boiler with a kitchen knife. I discovered a surprising amount of wiring and even some PCB. I decided to unscrew everything. I pulled the cover off another box inside the boiler and found it completely empty. I poked around a bit more and found the "Overheat Cut-Out Override" switch. I depressed said switch, and the green status LED confirmed we were ready to rock steady. So I turned the boiler on. There was a small click and nothing.

"Hmmm..." I thought, feeling very much the Handy-Man, "No demand..." So I went into the en suite and turned on the hot water. Immediately there was a sort of whooshing, rushing sound.

I ran back to discover a diabolical blue conflagration erupting from the small empty box I had discovered earlier.

Today's reason I hate my flatmate: The problem with the boiler was non-existent. The push of a button fixed it. That and the fact that my attempt to fix the fucker nearly burnt down The Habitat and scared seven shades of shit out of me. Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Plumbum in Extremis

I am in fear. Today I leave this city and return home to the Habitat. I'll get there about 7:30 tonight. The Flatmate has found a temp job. Which ordinarily would fill me with unbridled joy, but on this particular day I would prefer her at home...

The plumber commissioned by the demonic Flatmate from Hell has decided that he needs a particular part. A particularly rare and expensive part. A component of such recondite specificity that it must be ordered from a galaxy far far away. The cost of this widget has been estimated by our esteemed plumber at somewhere between the amount of money I've budgeted for my trip to Amsterdam, and the premium for my professional indemnity insurance for the next year.

I have spoken to the Plumber ("Andy" apparently), and he was full of all manner of vague assurances and guarantees. But was unable to tell me WHAT WAS FUCKING WRONG, or what PRECISELY it was that needed to be replaced.

He has also apparently forgotten the make and model of the hot water system. And so cannot order the part. And so either the Flatmate from Hell will have to do it when she gets home (this will undoubtedly involve the complete collapse of the entire top floor, a minor explosion, and the combustion of all my favourite suits), or I will do it.

Of course at 8pm all of the plumbing outfitters in the galaxy far far away will have shut their blast doors for the weekend, and so I will have to shower in freezing water for the foreseeable future.

Today's reason I hate my flatmate: This whole fiasco is somehow her fault. If she was predictably useless she could have dragged her lazy arse out of bed and told this piratical plumber what he needed. But no. She had to go and get a fucking temp job, for which she will not even earn enough to pay for 2 hours of plumber-time, thereby forcing me to shower in freezing fucking water for the rest of my natural weekend. Oh - and hiring the world's worst fucking rip-off merchant. I despair.

She is the Destroyer of Worlds...

I am astonished at my flatmate. She has an almost mystical ability to fuck my life up from a distance. I don't even need to be back at The Habitat to suffer.

It would appear that today she destroyed the hot water system. I can assure you that there was nothing amiss this morning when I had a shower. I was able to draw enough hot water to shave, as is my wont, with a razor. There was no problem.

In the middle of an important data protection meeting this morning my phone went off. I could see it was The Flatmate. I killed the call. After the meeting, while I was on a boring call to a lawyer after the meeting I checked my voicemail:

Steve the Lawyer: "... and so I think that to preserve your position we should issue..."

Me: "uh huh"

Flatmate (in hysteria): "Oh my god, oh my god I don't know what I'm going to do - its terrible..."

Shit. Fuck. Shit-fuck. What has she done?

Steve: "... will of course involve a considerable amount of work, and we should definitely involve counsel..."

Me "I see. How much will that cost?"

Flatmate: "... no hot water ... So I turned the fucking tap off and then turned it on again, and guess what? Still no hot water..."

Me "Fuck"

Steve: "Sorry? *ahem* Well I suppose the fees could be reduced if we used junior counsel, like Wilkinson..."

Flatmate: "... fucking hot water? What am I supposed to do?! My hair is terrible! It's a fucking emergency! You've got to call me! NOW!"

Me: "Stupid fucking bitch."

Steve: "... *cough*.. well, we could use Davis, but he's not much better."

Today's reason I hate my flatmate: The lazy bitch gets out of bed at 10:30, and rings me at work about the hot water, thereby fucking up my office feng shui and putting me in a shitty mood that was only soothed by my leggy PA bringing me a latte and complimenting my tie.

An Introduction to the Flatmate...

I have recently moved in with the new flatmate, hence the resurrection.

I thought it was going to be a safe and simple existence. I had secured a reasonable sized 2 bedroom flat close to work, and figured that a flatmate would be the sensible way to defray the cost of rent. With an eye to the immediate past, I carefully selected a few really safe looking applicants.

Of the lot I liked Paula the best. She was funny, which I like in a flatmate. She has (or should I say had) a professional sounding job - legal executive. Sounded great, no worries about getting the rent money, and a possible source of free legal advice. Great. In our negotiations by email she said: "Don't worry, I'm domesticated." Even better I thought. Someone with a penchant for housework, which would make a change. And she is also hot, as in Daisy Duke hot.

Now, after a few weeks living with her I am beginning to wonder, domesticated in what way? Domesticated like a family of ferrets? Domesticated like a wild fucking pig? Domesticated in exactly the same way as an obdurate epileptic wombat with severe feculant proclivities and alcoholic Tourette's!

Since she moved in she lost her job. I am as yet unsure as to the precise details involved in the termination of her employ, but I suspect that it has something to do with alcohol. You see, nearly everything she does involves alcohol. And not in the way you might associate with a slender professional, more along the lines of a football team.

So of course she is behind in her rent.

And somehow the house is still a sty. Notwithstanding her abundant free time and self proclaimed domestification.

Todays reason I hate my flatmate: she is an unemployed drunken disgrace.

Resurrection!

I am back. With a vengence. I have a new flatmate. And she pisses me off.

I'm living in a two bedroomed flat with a small living room and a combined kitchen/laundry. I call my place "The Habitat". It is like a place that wild animals live in. It is always filthy. I work four days a week in another city, so my flatmate has plenty of time to clean up after herself.

Todays reasons my flatmate pisses me off:

The beyiyatch came home at midday, still drunk, and dropped an empty kebab wrapper on the kitchen floor, spilling lettuce and chili sauce on the floor, next to the garbage bin. She could not understand my objection to this behaviour. She just burped and went to bed.