Well of course, the letter I had been expecting has now arrived. From the landlady, preparing us for her trying to screw us out of our deposit. Apparently, part of the reason for her wanting us out was because we weren’t keeping the place in order…and she quoted the relevant part of the contract. However, we happen to know this is bollocks.
Firstly, she wants to sell the place. Secondly, we know she is planning some serious structural work. Thirdly she visited the place personally a year ago and has happily let us stay until now.

So – even if we vandalised the place (which we haven’t…yet), it wouldn’t matter because she’s planning to rip the joint apart. Her crappy effort at parquet flooring will have to be redone at least if she’s serious about selling the place.

No, we know what’s really going on. The row I had with Nora Batty’s mother-in-law, Sam, at the estate agents. She has clearly decided to try and dump us in it. Dogfaced, belligerent, loathsome, unpleasant, anhydrous, ungratified, dreary BITCH that, we believe, she is.

As you’d expect, I lost it when I read the letter. But I now realise that whatever happens we win. We don’t need the deposit for the new flat – obviously we need it for the normal debt reasons, but not for the new place. We will also win if we can be arsed taking it to court..because we are in the right; the place will be cleaner when we move out than it was when we moved in. Also, as tenants with a “periodic tenancy” we have fucking loads of rights. I might even demand all info Oak-lets have on us under the data protection act and then sue them for libel. Ahh, wouldn’t it be nice to have a go at using the law…I’m also slowly going bonkers and so care less than I ought about the practicalities of what I’m suggesting. I’d take months of work for this.

Last night, after a pleasant drink in the Rosey (Dave, Ian, Dan, Zap, Heather, Llynos, Paula, Pred etc) in the lovely new cross sunset, I got home, and sampled some of the the good doctor’s wares. Once Michele was satisfied that I was good and satisfied, she showed me the letter. I didn’t sleep. There’s this odd thing going on with my stomach – it feels like a family of birds are nesting there. My hair is also going grey. The night daemons explained to me in clear, rational, terms about how my debts work, how house moving works and how we’ll never be able to box everything up in time, and how we’re going to end up in the shit as a result of the landlady. I was also hungover. Even a couple of Anadin and several tapes of Jack Dee and Jeremy Hardy didn’t help. At 8:30 I started listening to radio 4. Funny how people like Jim Naughtie, John Humphries and Charlotte Green can seem like family. At 9am John Peel kicked-off his usual round of human-interest whimsey…and I love it. After stories about fatal anorexia, and then a mad woman who likes polkadots, came an ex-celebrity chef who is now homeless. This really woke me up and made me love her. She was fed up with moving house, due to landlords being landlords, so she now lives out of a suitcase with all her gear in storage. It was exactly what I wanted to hear, and inspired me to write to the programme in an attempt to get the malfeasance out of my head. It worked.

We spent the day boxing shit up and chucking shit out. One of the kids from down the road asked me what I was chucking out, and when I told him we were moving out he went and got his brother. He rushed over and told me and Michele it was a “shame” we were moving. Even though he’s only 8 years old I think he really likes Michele. It really made me realise how much I love this road, and how much I don’t want to leave it. This is the first road I’ve ever lived on that made me feel at home…
The flat itself can get stuffed however…

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