The boxes of CD’s, records, books, Videos, DVD’s had been stacked up against two walls since I moved, 17 of the cunts, all sealed. As I rode home I made the decision that I’d spend the evening doing nothing but unpack and sort as I went along. By 1am for, the love of Christ, with barely any food in my guts I was still wandering aimlessly about my gaff with full-on OCD re-arranging the piles of items into subdivided piles of piles. By the door I had 3 boxes of stuff destined for the charity shop, this separate pile was my point of sanity, to think I’d rid myself of things I no longer wanted was of enormous comfort and justified the scattered remains. A trip to fucking Ikea beckons, I need shelves…
I’m still having to harangue solicitors and estate agents to push this fucking completion through. In fairness it’s not my end, it’s my buyers crew that are pissing me about. On the plus side, my guilt, should that stinking half-wit I lived above decides he wants to learn to play the fucking Timpani, is wholly assuaged. The buyer has been complicit in compounding the problems with the sale (and costing me money) by both employing these cunts in the first instance and not demanding a staff members severed finger for every day they fail to do the job she’s fucking paying them for.
But not all is bad. I’m dead happy in my new gaff, it’s by far and away the best place I’ve lived in and this morning I called up the Husqvarna dealers and ordered a brand new SM 610 with the money my granddad left me in his will. It’s what he would’ve wanted, probably.
Astonishing video.
