The inspection did not start well...

It was Carrie Bradshaw who saw it first. A fat, succulent, cockroach. Her squeal alerted the Landlord (may he contract prostate cancer and die suppurating).

"Just think of it as a sort of take-home bush-tucker challenge." I almost said.

"Fuck." I said, sotto voce.

What can you say in such circumstances? I am betrayed by the degenerate retard living with me. Who is not supposed to be living with me. So I cannot blame her. And I can't exactly blame the fact that I am out of town nearly 5 days a week either... It belies a certain sort of irresponsibility.

"aaaahaha..." I giggled nervously "An insect from the order Blattodea. Possibly Blattella germanica. A marvellous specimen. I shall have to put it back in my collection, from where it has obviously escaped. Less germs in one of these than the human mouth, you know..."

The carpet in the lounge was apparently stained. Stained by the sort of staining material which makes a stain that is invisible to the naked fucking eye, perceptible only to landlords and TV show look-a-likes. Perhaps they had on contact lenses made of that stuff they use in CSI to detect ejaculate under UV, and the stain was in fact the site of a semi-perpetual penetration of the Flatmate by the local horde of car-thieves.

Perhaps I should have asked them to look at my curtains for me.

The bathroom needed cleaning, apparently. "To gleam is insufficient." That is what was written on Carrie's clipboard, I swear to God.

I was in for another shock when we got to the Flatmate's old room. There was dust everywhere and all sorts of crap on the floor. Old bus tickets, receipts for crap, general kibble. I even found a *ahem* soiled G-string, but this was much later, under the bed. It had formed to the contour of the mattress and was quite rigid. In parts.

Anyway, I got a fairly robust excoriation for the condition of the Habitat. Which was reasonably unfair, but expected from the Landlord (may his balls host a thousand parasites). So I went down to Vox to debrief with Bav.

Because Vox is three letters long, the names of all the staff have to be three letters long too. Bav is the owner. Bob you know about. There's Joe, and Jug and Dāv. Ha ha... no that's total bullshit which I just made up then.

Anyway, Bav, who is a degenerate pig-fucker first class, wasn't there. This bastard looks like a malignant Gandhi. The sort of bloke who likes violence and abhors fairness. His glasses, instead of being innocuously circular are all sharp and elongated. He is rude to his customers, vicious to his staff and engages in date-rape at the birthday parties of his adolescent nieces. His beard gives you the impression that he knows the whereabouts of a cache of kiddy-pr0n and is pretty handy with a box-cutter. Despite these minor character flaws, he is good to know: he is highly knowledgeable about scotch and cigars and stocks some of the very best available.

His advice involved the use of Rohypnol.

Anyway, today's reason I hate my flatmate is fairly bloody obvious: she's a bitch and I hate her and she's crap at cleaning up after herself and she gets me in trouble with the Landlord (may his PA have a Grand mal while fellating him) and she still owes me money and I don't have any Rohypnol and I can't think of any revenge that won't also damage the Habitat and if she doesn't shape up soon I swear to Cthulu that I'm going to stab her in the eye with a shitty stick. And Spathy is dead now too.

Abandon all hope...

This weekend, ie, tomorrow, there is an inspection of the Habitat, by the Landlord (blessed is his name, peace be upon him).

I return to the Habitat this evening. Last night I tried to communicate to The Flatmate the urgency of the situation. This gave me pain, because it involved speaking to her, which is bad enough, but I had to do it over the telephone. The same object which she abused so completely. And after my instruction never to touch the fucker again I felt that forcing her to pick it up by ringing it for 15 minutes might somehow be interpreted as permission to recommence the rape of my wallet.

In any case, the sullen wench did pick up the phone and listened sullenly as I informed her that the Landlord (blessed be his name and so forth ...) would be entering the Habitat at approximately 1400 hours, accompanied by Lord Vader and a guard of loyal storm-troopers, and that He wants no filth, dust, mould, garbage, thong-like underwear, shoes, dirty jeans or coke-snorting paraphernalia lying around like normal.

You see, gentle readers, the Landlord (peace etc ...)... No wait, I'll tell you about this malignant bastard first. He is a motherfucker of the first water. This prick is capable of the worst sort of snobbery and bastardry. In his mind, the fact of his ownership in fee simple of several luxurious real estates somehow imbues this him with the power to heal lepers with his bare fucking hands. This messianic Orangutan is always accompanied by a curly-haired-chick-from-sex-in-the-city-look-alike woman (god only knows what she is - PA, estate-agent, wife, girlfriend, pet crack-whore).

Between them they systematically criticise, threaten and insinuate. And they do it to within a nano-meter of the law according to the terms in my lease. I hate them for it. At the beginning of my tenancy he wanted to be paid in cash, which struck me as very strange and quite possibly contrary to the best efforts of the authorities who regulate income tax. I don't typically use cash and going to the bank is a ball-ache, especially if it is just for him. All my suggestions (even cheques!) were sneered at. This prick would have turned his nose up at gold bullion couriered to him directly by a naked Milla Jovovic. And given the sheer bastardry of dealing with him, I'm not exactly sure he will be so keen on the Flatmate, cause she's not really, in a total legal sense, completely on the lease. She's got 6 months squatter's rights and a bad attitude.

This visit has been in my diary for six weeks now and there's not a god-damned thing I can do about my impending doom. I will be homeless come Monday.

Anyway, the Landlord (etc, etc) is selling up. And apparently there will be another millionaire mountebank to deal with on Saturday.

So I informed the Flatmate about this inexorable farce, and she sullenly listened. Then with detectable glee she tells me: "There's five full garbage bags by the front door. I'm going away for the weekend. Have fun."

How in the name of Christ she has managed to fill five garbage bags is beyond me. Where this volume of filth came from is a mystery. I am afeared that she has conducted some sort of orgy in the Habitat, and these bags contain the forensic material. I am sort of glad she won't be there to fuck things up for me, but she still owes me bread for the phone bill. And this time of year those garbage bags will be covered in snow. It's been puking down at the Habitat apparently. So, I have to dig out five bags of her garbage and somehow dispose of them myself. God knows what the neighbours think of the midden outside. And I hope the Landlord (....) hasn't seen it.

Today's reason I hate my flatmate: she is positively enjoying the fact that I have to clean up after her before 2 o'clock on Saturday, that I have to put her filth in my car, that she can just swan off to whatever carnival of substance abuse and debauchery she has been invited to, while I labour under the interrogation of The Master of the Universe, Carrie fucking Bradshaw and some bastard who wants to own my crib.