Solicitors are on my back like Quasimodo’s hunch. They’re calling me virtually every hour asking a series of fucking to questions to which they have answers, answers I supplied to the cunts almost 6 months ago when I put my sodding flat on the market. Being solicitors every minutiae is recorded and despatched by post no doubt incurring a fee akin to the national debt of Zimbabwe. Making it worse they’re treating me like I’ve the mental age of 7 after being run over by a Dial-a-Ride bus and have this almost accusatory tone that somehow this delay in completion is my fault. But the fucking limit is their asking me to do their job. I’ll keep this short, Cunts dad has some paperwork I need, despite them having full access to all the relevant details it’s, apparently, my ‘responsibility’ to chase it up. The upshot of this means I was forced to knock on Cunts door and ask him for his dads phone number and harangue him for various details and documents that, as I speak, are delaying absolutely everything.
I can’t relax, focus on anything. Even writing this requires my concentration to burn through a miasma of paperwork, packing duties, phone calls, I feel effectively homeless as I’m torn between 3 points of accommodation, IC’s gaff, my Hackney flat and the current hell-hole I’m trying to rid myself of. It’s totally hideous and entirely confusing.
It’s not as if my diary isn’t clear either, Tuesday evening IC and I went to The Royal Albert Hall to see Michael Nyman. It was jolly good but as it didn’t start until 10.15 so we didn’t get home until some time before 1 am, though fortunately the late start allowed us to have dinner in Kensington before the concert started. It was a glorious evening offering some time-out from the brainstorm but I could’ve done without the subsequent lack of sleep. Last night Bob was in town and following some unnecessarily complicated arrangements we (Bob, bro, Frank and Jamie) met at a boozer in Clapham and swallowed beer until cheerfully pissed. Again, the late one hasn’t done me any favours and tonight I’m meeting my bro for more of the same. This weekend it’s James’ 40th, IC has some friends saying at hers who require entertaining, work is fucking shit, I’m still tired, stressed beyond belief…
…and I just spilt fucking coffee all over my nuts.