Last week I made reference to the fact that my garden put me in mind of 'Apocalypse Now,' what with its overgrowing sticky-back plants and abundance of weeds and dead cows on the lawn.
If not quite ready for the next edition of House and Horse, or Hound and Home, or Horses for... anyway, yeah, it's been resolved. Thank fuck. There's a lovely greeting of freshly shorn grass outside the door to my flat. Neighbours have been sipping Pimms in its gaze since Fred the landlord got the lawnmower out, so neat and trim is its visage. This pleases me.
A lovely man is Fred. I've been here for two and a bit years now and only met him a couple of times, but he's come good for me. Lowered the rent, sorted out Toiletgate or whatever I referred to it as at the time, kicked out the Polish masseur who never... seemed... quite... right to me.
He tells me now that mine is the only flat in the house that hasn't been refurbished and that he'll be happy to do it, we'll work out the details anon.
Of more immediate concern to me will be the disappearance of my couch - the loan deal runs out next Saturday week - but Fred's footing the bill for a replacement to the tune of 200 notes. If anyone has a decent and easily mobilised sofa that they're not needing anymore, drop me a mail.
Anyway, a lovely man is Fred.
= = = =
Other random thoughts, each unrelated:
I will never understand cricket. It occurs to me that it's beyond the ken of any ordinary Irishman, sports 'journalists' included.
Tonight, one hour before I left the office, the pall lifted because worrying has never solved a problem.
The new newscastress on Sky Sports News has a beautifully symmetrical face.
First of a week of 3pm-11pm shifts today. It coincides nicely with my penury. I'm running low on money, so couldn't afford to have a life anyway.
'Waltz With Bashir' is... is... no, I'm still not ready.
Hang on, I think I've got it. There are six balls to an over and eight to an inning wicket.