This financial shit in the States isn’t at all good, I’m speaking from purely selfish reasons, I pay as much attention to the economy as the politicians pay to the kids, yeah (right kids? Right on, yeah) usually, but in the last fortnight things have become quite serious and (my) business is being effected.
Of course, I’m in the process of trying to flog my gaff as well, great timing by the way, and looking to buy -conversely this is good timing, maybe- which will cost me a large sum of money I feel would be better off spent in my pocket. I’ve done some maths. If it wasn’t for some loans that I foolishly ignored when I last re-mortgaged and squandered the wonga on, well, I don’t quite know where it went frankly, I’d be in a good position to sit this one out. But I’m not, I feel that it’s time to draw in my horns so, looks like I’m stuck in fucking Tooting for at least 2 more years. Two more years of Cunt. I’m sure that’s a film. Two. Christ.
Despite myself I’m under playing this somewhat. I’m fucking furious that I didn’t get out when I had the chance and, of course, the prospect of living over my arse-tampon of a neighbour for another second is a lifetime too much, but I have to remain positive. Hearing James’s story last week about his neighbour did help put things into perspective (to a certain degree) and in addition to clearing my debts which amount to a fucking lot of outgoings per month, I’ll have enough money left over, I hope, to do some work on this place.
Ironically perhaps, on my way into work yesterday I noticed that my neighbourhood has become populated by people with mental handicaps. The local superstore on a Saturday has more raspberries in it than the fruit and veg isle but lately they’ve been wandering about on my way to and from work. There’s the chap with the ponytail that sees great amusement in the pavement which he then goes onto discuss with himself, the fat lady with the shopping trolley and Davy Crokett hat who seems very cross about something and the tall fellow who strides all lopsided to the bench outside the tube for the sole purpose of drinking cans of cider, each one a million miles away from an apple, and yelling at the traffic before being violently sick –actually, maybe he’s not mental, just plain pissed.
Yesterday evening on my way home I nearly hit one. This chap dresses like a 1970’s spiv, brown trilby hat and suit, brown brogues and never without a brolly. He’s quite dishevelled but there is something about him that find admirable. Anyway I was turning a corner at a junction and all of a sudden there was a muttering face inches from my nose, it gave me quite a start I can tell you and, unfortunately, has just resulted in a gargantuan nightmare from which I couldn’t recover. This morning I arose at 6.50am dear reader, that’s so early I thought such a time of day was a myth. I can’t recall the nightmare but I awoke when the spiv, shouting at me, was about to insert his brolly in my eye as someone sang ‘Why So Sad’ by the Manic Street Preachers slightly off camera. Pick the bones out of that Freud. Oh, he’s dead.