When I was a girl of about 8 years old I remember having a discussion with a friend about what we would be doing in the year 2000. The grand old age of 24 seemed awfully old. And awfully far away. My friend wanted to be an air hostess, so she could travel. I wanted to be an international business woman with a brief case who flew on planes so that I could travel and people like my friend would have to bring me coffee.
She ended up working the scene, having a selection of rich fiancees and travelling the world. A hostess of sorts. This weekend I ended up in business class with a laptop case going to see my clients. Actually not a business woman at all but having a lovely fantasy in my head.
Having woken up at 3am British time, after not much sleep due to nerves, barking dogs and men banging their ramadan drums in the early hours, I travelled for 9 hours door to door. By the time I actually met my new colleagues at noon I was having difficulty stringing coherent sentences together. Needless to say that at that ungodly hour I had not taken advantage of any free champagne on my flight.
We were checked into The Hiltons executive suite at canary wharf, on a package that entitled us to free booze and food until 11pm. I managed one free glass of wine the entire trip. Nor could I take advantage of my handsomely sized bath tub, I was too frightened that I'd fall asleep and drown.
The same night we had to attend the advertising agencies 60th anniversary party. Not their 23rd anniversary party as previously thought. My dreams of dancing girls and dashing men in black polo neck sweaters were soon dashed. In fact my expectations of food were sorely disappointed. Maybe the dancing girls and dashing men had retired into the toilets to do cocaine and had taken copious amounts of sandwiches with them? So on little more than a cocktail sausage in the previous 30 hours, a smattering of sleep and with raging PMT, you can imagine that I was slightly perturbed when my colleagues (who had told me it was a 60's fancy dress party) arrived in the hotel lobby wearing black cocktail dresses and I arrived looking like I fell out of Ghandi's bum. I used to have nightmares about that sort of thing when I was at school. They came true.
I think I hid it well enough though.
Again, the free wine flowed and I barely felt capable of drinking any of it. Not because I was looking at my dress, but through exhaustion. Where's the fun in that!?
One highlight was meeting my friend Gill, now in the motherly way, for coffee in Oxford street and realising that there was someone who probably felt more tired than me... although she did have that pregnancy bloom thing going on so carried it off rather well.
My dreams of fancy executive meals and first class living have been shattered. All I wanted for most of the week was an empty meeting room I could sleep under the table in and a couple of egg and cress sandwiches.
The last day was another all day meeting, which I had to leave early to get to the airport, only to find that the computer system controlling the radar in the whole of the south of england was down and all flights were cancelled. We were booked into a rather dubious airport hotel, full of business men from Milton Keynes, The sort of place that you would never want to pass a UV light over the curtains or bed spreads or else you'd never sit down without fear of getting pregnant. I kept expecting someone to jump out and say 'aha!' a la Alan Partridge. It was full of tossers. I had a couple of drinks and went away and hid in my smelly room. And sat on a Marks and Spencers carrier bag.
Anyway when I did finally get the plane the flight was lovely. Although I swear the woman serving me coffee sniggered. Had a great weekend with BF. Was going to go to cappadocia with him while he is working this week but we both realised that it would be a waste of time, because I'd just be sitting in a hotel room by myself when I should be doing stuff here.
It looks like I'll be leaving Turkey on 9th October. I have to start working for Ogilvy from Istanbul as of 1st October. I also have Klara visiting, which I am really looking forward to, and a whole host of paperwork and loose ends to tie up and people to say goodbye to.
So I may well be under the radar this week, and not for the first time.
Monday, 29 September 2008
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Detoxing
No not detoxing my life silly. But purging all the crap from my desk at work, my cupboards, those random bags you lug around with you that are full of nothing but 5 year old receipts, lighters from restaurants in Greece that you never even went to, old ball point pens, birthday cards, bits of ribbon, drunkenly scrawled email addresses and business cards of people you can't remember and electrical cords for appliances you have long since binned. Or is that just me?
Anyway I removed 10kg of it from my life. I kid you not. I've travelled the world with backpacks lighter than that.
On Monday I go to London for some brand training for my new job. Ouuuu. On one of the evenings it is agency's 23rd birthday party. And it is a 60's theme. I dunno how I feel about that. I expected the theme from a creative agency to be somewhat more... well creative. I mean shouldn't it really be an 80's party? Anyway with nothing but the bits and bobs I had lying around in my cupboard I have created a wonderful ensemble. Well the bits and bobs and the 40 quid dress and the 100 quid pair of boots.
But the boots will last for years. Really. Because they have grips. AND heels. Do you know how hard it is to find that combination? For some reason all the makers of 'winter boots' seem to forget the fact that they are producing shoes for WINTER and that it might SNOW or that the streets might be a tad SLIPPY. I have actually been on the look out for high heeled boots with grips for 4 years now. I kid thee not. In Prague, with its hills, and 8 month winter and silly stupid cobble stones, it is even harder than anywhere in the world to procure anything but the smoothest soled spikiest heeled shoes. Meaning that, to avoid certain death, your only choice is manly lumberjack boots. I swear when I rule the world I really am going to get that place concreted. Or arrest the Bata family for crimes against women.
Work drags on. I have tomorrow, then three days in London, then I get back and have 2 days to work and then it's Byram, the feasting season after Ramadan where everyone who has pretended they haven't been eating, eats even more!
And that's the end of my rather unillustrious career at Vodafone. When I left Vodafone Czech I was sad. Because I was there for 5 years, because I was part of Oskar mobile which was a pretty goddamn cool place to work. I feel absolutely no emotional attachment to the Turkey branch at all. Rather than roaming the corridors reminiscing, I am prowling the staircase like a caged animal looking for an escape route. I don't even want a goodbye dinner or any of that faux bollocks. A refund on all the money I was instructed to spend on managers presents might be nice though. Especially since most of them couldn't even be bothered to say hello. Yes they actually forced you to 'donate' based on your managerial level. Usually about 30 quid, which I thought was a damn cheek since I didn't receive a thing on mine. I could have bought more boots!!!
I just bought the bf his birthday present for Saturday. I am still yet to receive one from him (there seems to be a bit of a theme developing here). However as I was purchasing it the dishy guy in the store amused me by trying everything on so I could see what it looked like, which is a first. I suspected he was gay, but he kept trying to ask me out - not actually an indication of not being gay in my experience. But he was REALLY insistent. And even gave me a discount and scolded me for not asking for one, as you are supposed to in Turkey. But worryingly he made a point at looking at the name on my credit card. I was cyber stalked for a while by a guy from the grand bazzar for similar reasons. Which was idiotic really considering his photo is on facebook, I knew where he works and he knows I had a Turkish boyfriend.
Still it's nice to be chatted up. Lord knows it never happens in Prague.
Anyway I removed 10kg of it from my life. I kid you not. I've travelled the world with backpacks lighter than that.
On Monday I go to London for some brand training for my new job. Ouuuu. On one of the evenings it is agency's 23rd birthday party. And it is a 60's theme. I dunno how I feel about that. I expected the theme from a creative agency to be somewhat more... well creative. I mean shouldn't it really be an 80's party? Anyway with nothing but the bits and bobs I had lying around in my cupboard I have created a wonderful ensemble. Well the bits and bobs and the 40 quid dress and the 100 quid pair of boots.
But the boots will last for years. Really. Because they have grips. AND heels. Do you know how hard it is to find that combination? For some reason all the makers of 'winter boots' seem to forget the fact that they are producing shoes for WINTER and that it might SNOW or that the streets might be a tad SLIPPY. I have actually been on the look out for high heeled boots with grips for 4 years now. I kid thee not. In Prague, with its hills, and 8 month winter and silly stupid cobble stones, it is even harder than anywhere in the world to procure anything but the smoothest soled spikiest heeled shoes. Meaning that, to avoid certain death, your only choice is manly lumberjack boots. I swear when I rule the world I really am going to get that place concreted. Or arrest the Bata family for crimes against women.
Work drags on. I have tomorrow, then three days in London, then I get back and have 2 days to work and then it's Byram, the feasting season after Ramadan where everyone who has pretended they haven't been eating, eats even more!
And that's the end of my rather unillustrious career at Vodafone. When I left Vodafone Czech I was sad. Because I was there for 5 years, because I was part of Oskar mobile which was a pretty goddamn cool place to work. I feel absolutely no emotional attachment to the Turkey branch at all. Rather than roaming the corridors reminiscing, I am prowling the staircase like a caged animal looking for an escape route. I don't even want a goodbye dinner or any of that faux bollocks. A refund on all the money I was instructed to spend on managers presents might be nice though. Especially since most of them couldn't even be bothered to say hello. Yes they actually forced you to 'donate' based on your managerial level. Usually about 30 quid, which I thought was a damn cheek since I didn't receive a thing on mine. I could have bought more boots!!!
I just bought the bf his birthday present for Saturday. I am still yet to receive one from him (there seems to be a bit of a theme developing here). However as I was purchasing it the dishy guy in the store amused me by trying everything on so I could see what it looked like, which is a first. I suspected he was gay, but he kept trying to ask me out - not actually an indication of not being gay in my experience. But he was REALLY insistent. And even gave me a discount and scolded me for not asking for one, as you are supposed to in Turkey. But worryingly he made a point at looking at the name on my credit card. I was cyber stalked for a while by a guy from the grand bazzar for similar reasons. Which was idiotic really considering his photo is on facebook, I knew where he works and he knows I had a Turkish boyfriend.
Still it's nice to be chatted up. Lord knows it never happens in Prague.
Sunday, 14 September 2008
A mother scorned
Italian mums have a reputation for being a little 'protective' of their sons. Well let me tell you that Italian mothers are kittens in comparison to the formidable force of a Turkish woman and her male offspring.
In Turkey it is often said that you don't marry the man, you marry the family. It is tradition in Turkey, that when a man marries he must provide a house and all of the furnishings in it. So before the wedding the grooms mother takes him out and selects the couch, bed and colour scheme of your new marital home. And you'd better pray that his Uncle Ali doesn't own a cheap used furniture store. Upon marriage you are expected to call his mother 'mother' even if you have a perfectly good one of your own.
Bf's mum is no exception and I had already been forewarned by his friends that she had stopped at least two of his marriages from going ahead. Also he is the only child and his mum a widow who lives with her unmarried sister. You can imagine. There's an awful lot of protective love poured onto this 36 year old bachelor. You also only introduce a woman to your mother if you have intentions of marriage. Something that I am trying to learn to sit comfortably with.
But I figured out a strategy. It's amazing how far a bit of flattery about a mothers housekeeping skills can take you.
Yes I can cook, but she must have taught her son well because he is an exceptional cook
Yes I can iron, but I'm not very good at it, well not as good as her - how does she fold his shirts so neatly?
Those who know me may find this slightly hillarious.
As an independent self efficient person who has supported herself alone pretty much since the age of 17 I can't help but cringe a little as I write it. But I think of it more as an exercise in sociology and politics. If I can convince a Turkish mother that I am capable of looking after her precious son, I can probably rule the ottoman empire. AND not even have to iron the emperors clothes to boot.
Anyway other BIG news. I am moving back to Prague. I have landed the job as creative director at a major advertising agency where I will be in charge of the British Airways account, which means I'll be doing the creative for the print and internet advertising for 27 countries. This is like a shit hot position. This is like the dogs bollocks of a job for me. When I was in college at 16 I had 3 dreams. One was to be a journalist, the second an underwater photographer and the third to make up advertising.
As the fat man once sang: Two out of three ain't bad.
I'll be gone within the month. With a little trepidation.
As kafka once wrote 'beware the old crone she has claws' by that he referred to 'mother Prague'. He also said that the only way to get prague out of your system was to build two fires, one at Prague castle and one at Vysehrad and burn the whole place to the ground. A group of american artists even once made a low budget film called 'rexpatriots' about expats who tried to escape prague but always ended up returning.
It seems the old crone has hooked me again. I have spent many of my formative years in this city. Its the first foreign country I ever lived in, at the age of 19. I survived a lot including carbon monoxide poisoning, the subsequent death of a flat mate, homelessness and associations with the most unsavoury of characters.
However, I was always absolutely bloody determined never to call on my parents for any sort of assistance no matter what happened. So while other people would have turned and ran to the bosoms of their families, I stayed and did a lot of growing up.
My second encounter was on better terms, with a job as a copywriter, a decent flat, old friends, a more mature attitude (well I was in my mid 20's anyway). But soon I found the carpet whipped from under me again with the death of a parent, the loss of a true love (if unrequited love can indeed be true) and slightly too fond a penchant for crap czech wine.
Prague, perhaps, is the toughest mother in the world. But she always sends you back into the foray a little older, a little wiser and infinitely much better prepared. I can't help thinking, in the most romantic of senses, that she knew things weren't working out for me here and decided to call me back to give me another good bloody talking to.
Anyway, whatever personal crises the world decides to heap upon me within the next few years, I hope that at least my job pans out. I could do with a bit of pocket money as a treat because I sure as shit have done my chores.
Wish me luck!
In Turkey it is often said that you don't marry the man, you marry the family. It is tradition in Turkey, that when a man marries he must provide a house and all of the furnishings in it. So before the wedding the grooms mother takes him out and selects the couch, bed and colour scheme of your new marital home. And you'd better pray that his Uncle Ali doesn't own a cheap used furniture store. Upon marriage you are expected to call his mother 'mother' even if you have a perfectly good one of your own.
Bf's mum is no exception and I had already been forewarned by his friends that she had stopped at least two of his marriages from going ahead. Also he is the only child and his mum a widow who lives with her unmarried sister. You can imagine. There's an awful lot of protective love poured onto this 36 year old bachelor. You also only introduce a woman to your mother if you have intentions of marriage. Something that I am trying to learn to sit comfortably with.
But I figured out a strategy. It's amazing how far a bit of flattery about a mothers housekeeping skills can take you.
Yes I can cook, but she must have taught her son well because he is an exceptional cook
Yes I can iron, but I'm not very good at it, well not as good as her - how does she fold his shirts so neatly?
Those who know me may find this slightly hillarious.
As an independent self efficient person who has supported herself alone pretty much since the age of 17 I can't help but cringe a little as I write it. But I think of it more as an exercise in sociology and politics. If I can convince a Turkish mother that I am capable of looking after her precious son, I can probably rule the ottoman empire. AND not even have to iron the emperors clothes to boot.
Anyway other BIG news. I am moving back to Prague. I have landed the job as creative director at a major advertising agency where I will be in charge of the British Airways account, which means I'll be doing the creative for the print and internet advertising for 27 countries. This is like a shit hot position. This is like the dogs bollocks of a job for me. When I was in college at 16 I had 3 dreams. One was to be a journalist, the second an underwater photographer and the third to make up advertising.
As the fat man once sang: Two out of three ain't bad.
I'll be gone within the month. With a little trepidation.
As kafka once wrote 'beware the old crone she has claws' by that he referred to 'mother Prague'. He also said that the only way to get prague out of your system was to build two fires, one at Prague castle and one at Vysehrad and burn the whole place to the ground. A group of american artists even once made a low budget film called 'rexpatriots' about expats who tried to escape prague but always ended up returning.
It seems the old crone has hooked me again. I have spent many of my formative years in this city. Its the first foreign country I ever lived in, at the age of 19. I survived a lot including carbon monoxide poisoning, the subsequent death of a flat mate, homelessness and associations with the most unsavoury of characters.
However, I was always absolutely bloody determined never to call on my parents for any sort of assistance no matter what happened. So while other people would have turned and ran to the bosoms of their families, I stayed and did a lot of growing up.
My second encounter was on better terms, with a job as a copywriter, a decent flat, old friends, a more mature attitude (well I was in my mid 20's anyway). But soon I found the carpet whipped from under me again with the death of a parent, the loss of a true love (if unrequited love can indeed be true) and slightly too fond a penchant for crap czech wine.
Prague, perhaps, is the toughest mother in the world. But she always sends you back into the foray a little older, a little wiser and infinitely much better prepared. I can't help thinking, in the most romantic of senses, that she knew things weren't working out for me here and decided to call me back to give me another good bloody talking to.
Anyway, whatever personal crises the world decides to heap upon me within the next few years, I hope that at least my job pans out. I could do with a bit of pocket money as a treat because I sure as shit have done my chores.
Wish me luck!
Thursday, 4 September 2008
The man with the golden drum
It is ramadan right now. This doesn't really mean much except that the Turks, although they still continue to eat in my office, are slightly more pious than usual. It also bloody means that every morning at 4am a man with a big golden drum stands outside the bedroom window of my cockroach infested flat and bangs a great big drum for half an hour, to remind the Turks, who are already gorging themselves during the day, that they ought to get up and eat before sunrise, because its ramadan. And thats important. Even though when I ask the guys in the office they all look slying to one side, avoid eye contact and say that they 'have a relationship with god in their own way'. Also I swear the man in the wine shop tutted at me this evening when I bought a bottle of wine, which, btw, was so shit I had to pour it down the sink. Coincidence? I'm not so sure.
Cockroach infested flat? Yes I am back in it again. And it is still infested. Well only in the downstairs ensuite. I could be staying at my boyfriends, but after a major argument on the eve of my birthday which resulted in me spending the entire next day sobbing into a bottle of wine, pride prevents me from moving back.
I am, however, going to Prague tomorrow for a job interview with an ad agency. And I am praying that I get it, because after this last 3 months of hell I feel the urge to run away. And it is a pretty smart job.
However if that doesn't happen I will bite the bullet and either try and make a go of it here or return to London.
I won't, however, work for bloody vodafone turkey. Honestly I cannot stand the corporate political bollocks here, teamed with the unenthusiasm to make any sort of change.
The guys are okay. Most of them have at least studied outside the country. I went to my bosses leaving party today. I was speaking to one male colleague who asked me if I didn't find all this travelling around unsettling. I had to admit that I have started to feel an urge to set down roots somewhere. 'Perhaps its because this company is in such turmoil?' he asked. 'you can't feel settled when this whole company and your job is shaky'. I am inclined to agree.
Ah well. lets see what this week brings. Looking forward to prague, although with some trepidation. Am I really ready to go back, and will it be on different terms this time?
Cockroach infested flat? Yes I am back in it again. And it is still infested. Well only in the downstairs ensuite. I could be staying at my boyfriends, but after a major argument on the eve of my birthday which resulted in me spending the entire next day sobbing into a bottle of wine, pride prevents me from moving back.
I am, however, going to Prague tomorrow for a job interview with an ad agency. And I am praying that I get it, because after this last 3 months of hell I feel the urge to run away. And it is a pretty smart job.
However if that doesn't happen I will bite the bullet and either try and make a go of it here or return to London.
I won't, however, work for bloody vodafone turkey. Honestly I cannot stand the corporate political bollocks here, teamed with the unenthusiasm to make any sort of change.
The guys are okay. Most of them have at least studied outside the country. I went to my bosses leaving party today. I was speaking to one male colleague who asked me if I didn't find all this travelling around unsettling. I had to admit that I have started to feel an urge to set down roots somewhere. 'Perhaps its because this company is in such turmoil?' he asked. 'you can't feel settled when this whole company and your job is shaky'. I am inclined to agree.
Ah well. lets see what this week brings. Looking forward to prague, although with some trepidation. Am I really ready to go back, and will it be on different terms this time?
Monday, 4 August 2008
So bloody bored
Of stumbling from problem to problem. I just get one damn thing sorted out and it sets off a chain reaction and 1000 other things go wrong. I won't inflict my boredom upon you. Suffice to say that now the rats and roaches are sorted it has been discovered that the whole flat needs to be replumbed and a temporary job finally expired and has resulted in my bathroom flooding every time I shower. And there's more.... so much more. But I can't even be bothered to tell you about it. But I just spent 4 hours murdering the turkish language with an electrician.
One thing in life is reassuringly reliable - just when you think things can't get shitter, they inevitably do. The guy who sometimes gives me a lift to work has bought a scooter. Here they have the same blaze attitude to road safety as the greeks and spanish, no helmets, shorts.... I decided that at this particular juncture in my life I'll just get taxis to work instead.
I moved in with bloke temporarily. He asked me to stay living with him. I moved out. He likes me at the moment, no point in ruining it :-)
Anyway the rash I broke out in (either as a result of stress or a severe allergy to the roach poisoning) has almost gone, so at least I am not scaring the neighbourhood children anymore. Its still summer. At least my sea view isn't broken. Somewhere out there is a man that isn't scared of me. I have a rather nice shoe collection and enough cash to buy the occasional bottle of vino. S'uppose it ain't all bad really.
One thing in life is reassuringly reliable - just when you think things can't get shitter, they inevitably do. The guy who sometimes gives me a lift to work has bought a scooter. Here they have the same blaze attitude to road safety as the greeks and spanish, no helmets, shorts.... I decided that at this particular juncture in my life I'll just get taxis to work instead.
I moved in with bloke temporarily. He asked me to stay living with him. I moved out. He likes me at the moment, no point in ruining it :-)
Anyway the rash I broke out in (either as a result of stress or a severe allergy to the roach poisoning) has almost gone, so at least I am not scaring the neighbourhood children anymore. Its still summer. At least my sea view isn't broken. Somewhere out there is a man that isn't scared of me. I have a rather nice shoe collection and enough cash to buy the occasional bottle of vino. S'uppose it ain't all bad really.
Friday, 25 July 2008
You get what you deserve
So after a week of hell in which I have been invaded by all manner of pests which crawl, scuttle and fly, you would imagine that I was feeling a little world weary. Whilst my friends and boyfriend were off cavorting on the Bospherous this week, I have been on my hands and knees scooping rat shit out from under the cupboards in the 32 degree heat, cursing every deity known to man, and a few unknown ones too.
My apartment looks like a Chinese laundromat. I have had to halt washing insecticide sprayed clothing as I have run out of places to hang things. And trust me I can be very inventive with a bit of string and a few pegs.
So happy was I when chappy offered to come round and plug up my pipes with expanding foam along with our Guatemalan friend Paul who is quite good at man type household activities. However the men had a discussion and it was decided that boyfriend alone should come and rescue this not so fair maiden from her plight. This was more than slightly alarming. Never trust a man with any kind of gun who has never been trained to use it... even if it only fires foam. I had to show him what an alternator was last week on his car. He is not exactly what you'd call 'handy around the house'.
Anyway, the evening turned into a comedy of errors, mainly on account of me being premenstrual, which every woman will confirm is Mother Natures cruelest curse. It not only makes you extraordinarily clumsy, it suddenly robs you of the sane rationality one needs in order not to run howling from the room when you bang your head, scrape your back, knock things over and generally damage everything around you,
So when all of the above happened, it was 11pm at night, I hadn't eaten, I'd spent 10 hours at work and 4 cleaning up rodent crap, and then we discovered that the man with the untrained foam gun had irreversibly over filled my pipes with expanding foam causing my entire kitchen to flood, you can image that I was not a happy bunny. But I managed to keep it together... just.
This week has been a little overwhelming. Not only have I endured a cockroach infestation, a rat infestation, a wasps nest, spent every night cooped up alone cleaning and worrying about being eaten alive at night (so not much sleep) I had also learned that I must seek new employment. And then my kitchen flooded. It was already on the edge of being more than I could take in my premenstrual state. And my eyes did get a little watery, and I did slightly struggle to stop my bottom lip from trembling.
My boyfriend is an extraordinarily brave man for one so short. Because this is when he decided it would be a good time to take the piss out of me being so upset.
You can tell that I like him because I only actually threatened to kill him the once. And I didn't hit him or anything. But I won't lie. The thought did cross my mind. I think my exact words were 'listen honey, either I cry or you die but either way this frustration is coming out somehow.'
He took it quite well I think, And even bought me dinner afterwards.
Next week I meet 'the mother'. Turkish mothers are fiercely protective of their boys, a little like Italians I suppose. Now it is my turn to fear for my life. But I cunningly asked Jenn to bring over some posh marks and spencers biscuits with her the other week which I hope will sooth the heart of any woman. Even if I did threaten to castrate her only son.
My apartment looks like a Chinese laundromat. I have had to halt washing insecticide sprayed clothing as I have run out of places to hang things. And trust me I can be very inventive with a bit of string and a few pegs.
So happy was I when chappy offered to come round and plug up my pipes with expanding foam along with our Guatemalan friend Paul who is quite good at man type household activities. However the men had a discussion and it was decided that boyfriend alone should come and rescue this not so fair maiden from her plight. This was more than slightly alarming. Never trust a man with any kind of gun who has never been trained to use it... even if it only fires foam. I had to show him what an alternator was last week on his car. He is not exactly what you'd call 'handy around the house'.
Anyway, the evening turned into a comedy of errors, mainly on account of me being premenstrual, which every woman will confirm is Mother Natures cruelest curse. It not only makes you extraordinarily clumsy, it suddenly robs you of the sane rationality one needs in order not to run howling from the room when you bang your head, scrape your back, knock things over and generally damage everything around you,
So when all of the above happened, it was 11pm at night, I hadn't eaten, I'd spent 10 hours at work and 4 cleaning up rodent crap, and then we discovered that the man with the untrained foam gun had irreversibly over filled my pipes with expanding foam causing my entire kitchen to flood, you can image that I was not a happy bunny. But I managed to keep it together... just.
This week has been a little overwhelming. Not only have I endured a cockroach infestation, a rat infestation, a wasps nest, spent every night cooped up alone cleaning and worrying about being eaten alive at night (so not much sleep) I had also learned that I must seek new employment. And then my kitchen flooded. It was already on the edge of being more than I could take in my premenstrual state. And my eyes did get a little watery, and I did slightly struggle to stop my bottom lip from trembling.
My boyfriend is an extraordinarily brave man for one so short. Because this is when he decided it would be a good time to take the piss out of me being so upset.
You can tell that I like him because I only actually threatened to kill him the once. And I didn't hit him or anything. But I won't lie. The thought did cross my mind. I think my exact words were 'listen honey, either I cry or you die but either way this frustration is coming out somehow.'
He took it quite well I think, And even bought me dinner afterwards.
Next week I meet 'the mother'. Turkish mothers are fiercely protective of their boys, a little like Italians I suppose. Now it is my turn to fear for my life. But I cunningly asked Jenn to bring over some posh marks and spencers biscuits with her the other week which I hope will sooth the heart of any woman. Even if I did threaten to castrate her only son.
Monday, 21 July 2008
House of horrors
So having dealt with the cockroaches and wasps the size of Kansas, I set about cleaning my flat. It was already 'clean' having just had the slightly ineffectual and terminally lazy cleaning lady in on Friday, but the thing about spraying your house with toxic chemicals is that it can have some untoward side effects. And so the exterminator told me I had to wash every item of clothing, every towel, every cup, plate, saucer.... in fact anything I may come into close contact with.
The problem being that I have 3 wardrobes full of clothes (and six sizable drawers) one massive cupboard full of bed linen, not to mention my coat cupboard. It will take me weeks.
The first thing I did was unscrew the rusting bin unit under my kitchen sink and toss it into the garbage. It had no lid so it must have been like an all you can eat buffet for the roaches. It was then that I noticed the rat droppings behind the sink unit. Hundreds and hundreds of rat droppings, a small mountain of rat droppings. I swear I saw a miniature Turkish flag planted at the summit. I can tell they are from rats because they are massive. Either that or I have a small herd of dwarf mongoose living in my piping. I can not tell if they are new droppings or old droppings but the sheer number is enough to make me feel queasy.
The second thing I did was pack a bag. My boyfriend now refuses to stay at my flat and has demanded I stay with him. BTW his TV series was screened last week and it has received top ratings from the critics. It also had a share index of 25 which means it was watched by a quarter of all people watching TV that night... so thats nice.
Next on the list is to fire the cleaning lady. Having had to wipe down all the cupboards and surfaces myself, it has become apparent that she really is a first class useless toerag who merely squirts a bit of furniture polish in the air before I return home to give the impression that she has cleaned.
Tomorrow I will buy a rat trap and see if I can catch one of the buggers. After which I'll call in the second set of exterminators. The boys are going to buy me some polyurethane foam and plug the holes.
And so the grim discoveries at the house of horrors continues...
Anyone fancy popping round for dinner?
The problem being that I have 3 wardrobes full of clothes (and six sizable drawers) one massive cupboard full of bed linen, not to mention my coat cupboard. It will take me weeks.
The first thing I did was unscrew the rusting bin unit under my kitchen sink and toss it into the garbage. It had no lid so it must have been like an all you can eat buffet for the roaches. It was then that I noticed the rat droppings behind the sink unit. Hundreds and hundreds of rat droppings, a small mountain of rat droppings. I swear I saw a miniature Turkish flag planted at the summit. I can tell they are from rats because they are massive. Either that or I have a small herd of dwarf mongoose living in my piping. I can not tell if they are new droppings or old droppings but the sheer number is enough to make me feel queasy.
The second thing I did was pack a bag. My boyfriend now refuses to stay at my flat and has demanded I stay with him. BTW his TV series was screened last week and it has received top ratings from the critics. It also had a share index of 25 which means it was watched by a quarter of all people watching TV that night... so thats nice.
Next on the list is to fire the cleaning lady. Having had to wipe down all the cupboards and surfaces myself, it has become apparent that she really is a first class useless toerag who merely squirts a bit of furniture polish in the air before I return home to give the impression that she has cleaned.
Tomorrow I will buy a rat trap and see if I can catch one of the buggers. After which I'll call in the second set of exterminators. The boys are going to buy me some polyurethane foam and plug the holes.
And so the grim discoveries at the house of horrors continues...
Anyone fancy popping round for dinner?
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