what, no skull-shaped bong?

When learning a new language, it helps to have specific goals to work toward. At the moment, I am composing an occasional address to my new landlords, to be delivered on the day when I drop off my key at the end of my lease. I am still tweaking it, but it will go something like this.

Landlords:

I despise you with the intensity of a thousand suns. I hate your preppy spiky hair and your interminable small talk and your bovine gum-chewing. I hate you for telling me I could paint over your tasteless, knotty-pine-panelled walls (I don’t like my home to stare back at me, thank you) and then changing your minds. I execrate you for being the only landlords in this town too tight-fisted to provide basic kitchenware. I revile the ancient washing machine you provided that flooded my bathroom. I challenge you to sleep one night on that feral tesselation of rusted springs you have the temerity to call a mattress.

May your children's children be born with tails.


It's good to have projects. In the meantime, though, I find I am starting to get fond of the place. It’s a good size and it's on the top floor. The glass in the exterior door is cracked all over, but the door does lead out onto a vast, private roof terrace. The terrace is almost certainly made out of asbestos, and sags alarmingly, but if you walk on the joists, you’re set. The tap water leaves a burning sensation in your mouth, but there is unlimited free heating.

Even the paneled walls are kind of adorable. Somebody actually chose them, and that is touching. It’s like a sleepover in your dad’s den, only you get to stay there every night. Most people who’ve seen the place suggested in wobbly voices that a few Impressionist prints would cheer it up no end. Belligerent B proposed some pictures of smoking dogs playing pool, and a chenille bedspread, which is rather closer to the mark.

I’m living in a Martin Parr photograph.