The trials and tribulations of the purchasing of a house.
So. We currently have no fridge, no washing machine (it was taken away this morning), and we are a-dongled for the internet.
So we’re in the pub. It seemed like the only rational solution.
Currently we’re discussing whether it’s time to break out the fois gras …
But all is not rosy as can be. Why not? Well, due to applied muppetry of the solicitation profession, it still isn’t bloody well signed, sealed or, god forbid, delivered. It’s the fact that no-one seems to bother talking, or listening which galls.
This means I cannot order a fridge. Which sucks. I cannot order a van, which also sucks.
Normally, I would hire the van myself, but I am in the strange position of not having a valid driving license, but being legally ok to drive. That’s be interesting to explain to the rozzas were I to be pulled over. It would be Smiley Culture time.
It works like this. Because of the various symptoms which PD can deliver, like a malicious santa, I am now on a three-year limited licence – which recently expired. In effect, it’s my three year anniversary … I wonder how they go for such things? The golden would be a bottle, because it’s plainly only magical powers that will keep you going that long.
There are always milestones in such conditions. This is one of them
If Jacques had had PD, his speech might have been very different. Don’t worry, I’m not going to bastardize Shakespeare’s words. I have not the wit. But there are stages. And there are things which make the symptons worse.
Cold is one.
Stress is another.
Tiredness is another.
I’m not functioning at my best. Yesterday, I looked at this piece I was writing for Guitar and Bass magazine and for the life of me had no idea why I was writing it.
For some reason, PD seems to affect the organisation centres of the brain.
So it seems as if PD fast-forwards you to the ‘Last scene of all’, or ‘second childishness and mere oblivion’, and while it may not affect one’s teeth, it certainly does odd things to the eyes, messes up your standard of taste, and simply fucks up everything. Sans PD? Yes, please.
That bloody de Vere.
So, we haven’t quite hit rock bottom yet:
“Currently we’re discussing whether it’s time to break out the fois gras …”
I’m with you on the cold (although I suppose it makes the lack of fridge less disasterous). I reckon it’s summat to do with the shivering (from being cold) and the rigidity (from the PD) fighting each other for control. Your brain doesn’t stand much of a chance… but what do I know? I’ve only one diagnosed winter under my belt. And I haven’t hit the driving licence expiry milestone either (that conjures disturbing images of a car wrapped around a slab of granite). Presumably you need your consultant to drop a word in DVLA’s shell-like to the effect that you should be allowed to revive your licence?
Good luck with the house thing. It’s dreadfully long-winded, but they usually get there in the end.