Some Replies...
Salamander – Cthulhu, you are quite correct. Since I am already living with Shub-Niggurath, I have no fear of the Great Old One. He doesn't have the balls to enter the Habitat. I challenge Him. I'm puttin the fucken call on YOU, Cthulhu! Come get some!!!
Theloneblogger – I guarantee this work is absolutely not fiction. Some parts of it may have been exaggerated to protect the innocent, i.e: me. The bitch is utterly diabolical and I promise you that if I was petty minded I could complain about her once an hour.
MB – I love you too. I will move in with you immediately. Just help me bury one corpse, that's all I ask.
Tiger Lamb – I sometimes wonder myself whether I have inadvertently serialised myself. I am a big fan of dream sequences. In fact I'm hoping I'll wake up some day soon and have a good chuckle.
Estellite – secret webcam… deliciously evil. She has no human rights. And I have the publishing rights. To her ritual sex rites.
The city I'm in is having a 4 day festival of plastic and crap chocolate. Something to do with St Jeebus' Day later this month. The effect of this is that all the accommodation of the standard to which I have become accustomed has been booked in advance for a year. I have had to make do with *gasp* a B&B.
B&B is such an inoffensive sounding acronym. It couldn't possibly be uncomfortable. It suggests, almost onomatopoeically, a bedroom full of doilies, three ducks on the wall, warm, starched and deodorised, old fashioned, cringingly friendly almost subservient. It will do in times of crisis. (Impossible to send down for a Godfather at a B&B tho).
It doesn't suggest for example any scenes out of Hitchcock movies, where the main characters keep their mother's corpse in the attic. It shouldn't bring to mind banjos and the Appalachian mountains. The door was opened by a leering decrepit old man and his leering decrepit old wife. There was a collie cross shepherd bitch going bananas in the hallway when I got in. It got so excited that it shit on the carpet. Rather than lots of embarrassed laughing there was an earnest explanation about the dogs diet, how old she was and that she was excited because she doesn't see other people very often. Big Ben sized warning bell went off right about then.
The shower had a large yellow post-it note on the door instructing me to bring the bathroom mat from my room, to use it, and then to wipe down the shower cubicle with the towel provided. There was only one towel provided, which horrified me until I decided to wantonly disobey the contemptible and impertinent note. The bathroom door was adorned on both sides with different instructions about some shit or other.
The instructions for ordering breakfast were on a large yellow post-it, and they instructed me to write my order on a large yellow post-it and to affix said article to the exterior of my door, where Igor, or Thing would collect it. There was a large yellow post-it declaring that a particular room was the "dinning room" [sic] (I've always secretly wanted to use [sic] in a quote - such superiority!). A large yellow post-it warned me not to leave the front door unlocked lest "Jessie" escape. "She nows how to open it!"[sic].
I suspect that Jessie was probably the dog, not the landlady.
I asked the landlady for an iron and ironing board so I could do my shirt. I was invited down into the kitchen. There I was expected to dangle my Jermyn Street French cuffs into the fucking dog basket. The stench of dogshit was palpable. I could see fur. While I ironed, the dog barked and the landlady described a humorous anecdote about the time she dropped the iron on the carpet and Jim didn't shout at her or beat her, which just shows the strength of their relationship after all these years, which he would have done for a more minor infraction of housekeeping, isn't it funny how we are all bothered by the small things in life?
I almost want to get back to the Habitat.
Theloneblogger – I guarantee this work is absolutely not fiction. Some parts of it may have been exaggerated to protect the innocent, i.e: me. The bitch is utterly diabolical and I promise you that if I was petty minded I could complain about her once an hour.
MB – I love you too. I will move in with you immediately. Just help me bury one corpse, that's all I ask.
Tiger Lamb – I sometimes wonder myself whether I have inadvertently serialised myself. I am a big fan of dream sequences. In fact I'm hoping I'll wake up some day soon and have a good chuckle.
Estellite – secret webcam… deliciously evil. She has no human rights. And I have the publishing rights. To her ritual sex rites.
The city I'm in is having a 4 day festival of plastic and crap chocolate. Something to do with St Jeebus' Day later this month. The effect of this is that all the accommodation of the standard to which I have become accustomed has been booked in advance for a year. I have had to make do with *gasp* a B&B.
B&B is such an inoffensive sounding acronym. It couldn't possibly be uncomfortable. It suggests, almost onomatopoeically, a bedroom full of doilies, three ducks on the wall, warm, starched and deodorised, old fashioned, cringingly friendly almost subservient. It will do in times of crisis. (Impossible to send down for a Godfather at a B&B tho).
It doesn't suggest for example any scenes out of Hitchcock movies, where the main characters keep their mother's corpse in the attic. It shouldn't bring to mind banjos and the Appalachian mountains. The door was opened by a leering decrepit old man and his leering decrepit old wife. There was a collie cross shepherd bitch going bananas in the hallway when I got in. It got so excited that it shit on the carpet. Rather than lots of embarrassed laughing there was an earnest explanation about the dogs diet, how old she was and that she was excited because she doesn't see other people very often. Big Ben sized warning bell went off right about then.
The shower had a large yellow post-it note on the door instructing me to bring the bathroom mat from my room, to use it, and then to wipe down the shower cubicle with the towel provided. There was only one towel provided, which horrified me until I decided to wantonly disobey the contemptible and impertinent note. The bathroom door was adorned on both sides with different instructions about some shit or other.
The instructions for ordering breakfast were on a large yellow post-it, and they instructed me to write my order on a large yellow post-it and to affix said article to the exterior of my door, where Igor, or Thing would collect it. There was a large yellow post-it declaring that a particular room was the "dinning room" [sic] (I've always secretly wanted to use [sic] in a quote - such superiority!). A large yellow post-it warned me not to leave the front door unlocked lest "Jessie" escape. "She nows how to open it!"[sic].
I suspect that Jessie was probably the dog, not the landlady.
I asked the landlady for an iron and ironing board so I could do my shirt. I was invited down into the kitchen. There I was expected to dangle my Jermyn Street French cuffs into the fucking dog basket. The stench of dogshit was palpable. I could see fur. While I ironed, the dog barked and the landlady described a humorous anecdote about the time she dropped the iron on the carpet and Jim didn't shout at her or beat her, which just shows the strength of their relationship after all these years, which he would have done for a more minor infraction of housekeeping, isn't it funny how we are all bothered by the small things in life?
I almost want to get back to the Habitat.
posted at 13:37
22 comments
