You know my boiler that I've been trying to convince my fuckwit landlord and letting agents to fix? If you're a long term reader and/or friend, you'll not only know about it, you'll be sad that you're still having to hear about it. If you've stumbled across my blog for the first time, then welcome. I hope you like boiler stories.
The thing is this. I know it's knackered because it doesn't work. I know this because I have eyes and a brain. And three workmen have told me so. In spite of this my letting agent has consistently informed me that, in her opinion, it's fine and that the landlord won't fix it. This was followed a day or so later by said landlord serving notice on me because he would prefer me to leave than to fix the fucking boiler.
So, fine. Whatever. I got my head round it. I got angry. I calmed down. WhatEVER fuckhead, thought I. I'll find somewhere better. With WORKING APPLIANCES. And before I leave I will make sure the cat shits in all the cupboards. You massive knobtard.
In the meantime I settled down to work on a project for the English National Ballet which I'd quite like to finish before I have to start my new job on Monday. It was unlikely anyway, but in light of what happened yesterday afternoon, that particular fancy was totally kiboshed.
I'm happily transcribing the details of the principal dancers when I get a phone call. From the Cunt Letting Agent. The one who informed me that I am homeless just the other day. I don't feel massively inclined to be friendly as it is. When she informed me that they are going to enter my flat, whether I like it or not, for an emergency situation, I was even less friendly. When she told me what the emergency was, a part of my soul actually imploded with impotent rage.
Turns out the boiler, that they didn't want to fix, is so fucked that it's been leaking under the floorboards into York's finest chicken emporium below.
"So, wait a second," said I to Cunt Letting Agent. "Can I just get this straight? The boiler that you refused to fix? The boiler that I have been begging you to fix for two months? That boiler? That boiler that has now put a stop to trading at York's Yummy Chicken, a shop that has been open since 1736 and never, ever, EVER closes? You NOW want to fix it? How was it not important before? It looks sort of like you have been forced into it and now you expect my co-operation? Interessstiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing."
I hung up to the sound of mad squawking. Two seconds later my flat is stormed by a SWAT team of plumbers and someone else from the letting agency. The plumbers I let in. The letting agency twat I didn't. She was surprised by this. Weird.
Two hours later, the cat is frightened, the leak has been stopped, presumably the chicken shop is open again and me? Well, I've now been told that the boiler is broken. IS IT? IS IT REALLY? Oh, and that I don't have hot water or heating until they get round to fixing it.
Then something happened. I think I reached a state of such fury that something in my head popped. I think the impossible has happened and I've used up all my anger. I just don't have any left.
Instead I got decisive. First thing this morning I looked at a flat. Second thing this morning I insisted that Cunt Letting Agents let me out of my contract early, on the basis that the flat is worse than that house in The Money Trap with Tom Hanks and that if I don't get to leave early I will kill them with fire. Third this morning I put the cash down to take the new place off the market.
It's a three storey, two bedroomed flat above a rather pleasing vintage shop and I move in on 10 February. And as long as the boiler works, I am never, ever, ever moving again.