It could be worse

Things could be worse. The builders are supposed to finish on Friday, my spoilt toddler princess flatmates move out on the 22nd, and we aren’t expected to cover their rent. Except the interior renovation starts on September 12th (22 days later) and my landlord says the builders will be working “day and night… from seven in the morning ’til eight at night if they have to”.

Oh… really? I think my uptight neighbours may have something to say about that. I tried to express to him, tactfully, the amount of strain this extended project is causing me. He replied “Well, they aren’t there all the time.” No, dear landlord, only when I’m trying to work, trying to sleep, trying to think and trying to get on with my life.

My landlord seems to think I might like living rent-free for two months while the house is being rebuilt around me. I like the first half of that proposition, the second half, not so much. It’ll be the same crew who have been working on the outside, who I’ve grown to dislike over the past ten weeks – they leave cigarette butts everywhere, they’ve twice tried to get into my (locked) room when they thought I was out, for no apparent reason, and they’re now rushing to finish the job and doing it poorly, removing the putty from the outside of my windows (it’s what keeps them in, you know) and painting the frames sloppily. Will they replace the putty before it rains? Who can tell? Plus, turpentine gives me a headache, they’ve set fire to the outside of the house twice, and Vietnamese pop music is bloody awful.

So, I’ve been put into an impossible and ludicrous situation, but luckily I have a month to extract myself.

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