in the kitchen at parties
Being a grown-up is complicated. The last week or so has been a bit of a blur, during which I've spent more time listening to the dismal help-line hold music of insurance companies, internet providers, security companies and Telkom (ritual ptooey) than I actually care to think about. The new place has a landline, but it's something weird called a pre-paid line and isn't upgradable to ADSL, so they'll have to install a new actual ADSL line. Which they can't do yet, because apparently that area has run out of ports. I have to wait until one frees up. This could take months. Things on the to-do list: gently prod the Evil Landlord to unearth from the depths of his study the IBurst modem which came with the original IBurst package which used to supply our internet, and for which he has been stoically paying for the last few years because he's never got around to cancelling it, despite the fact that we have ADSL and he never actually uses the IBurst. If he can find the modem, I can borrow it until Telkom knits new ports out of their nose-hairs, or whatever it is they need to do. Otherwise there will be internet withdrawal, and it's never pretty. I own my internet addiction with a complete absence of shame.
I suppose I shouldn't point fingers at my Evil Landlord about paying an IBurst subscription pointlessly for, ooh, five years now (I got the ADSL when my dad moved to CT, which was in 2009, so it's been a while...), because one of the more positive upshots of today's earful of hold music was that the insurance company noticed I'd been paying a minor bit of insurance on my old Citigolf for over a year after I sold the car, since they apparently didn't cancel it as I asked when I cancelled the main insurance. They are going to refund me. Possibly I can afford a kettle for my spanky new kitchen. Which is good, because tea withdrawal is possibly slightly more ugly than the internet withdrawal, all things considered.
In the Department of my Spanky New Kitchen, I now have a fridge and washing machine, both spanky. Jo came and hand-held me on Sunday while efficient little ladies in Tafelberg Furnishers steered me expertly to the maximum possible expenditure within my budget. (Salespeople are scary, have you noticed? But both appliances on special offer at around R2000 total off their value). They're delivered on Friday. Removals proper happen on Monday. The kitchen chez Evil Landlord is piled with tottering piles of kitchenware as I negotiate the tricky procedure of extricating my stuff from his. This is not assisted materially by my proverbial cheese-brain, which means any selection process is punctuated with treks down the passage to his study, clutching various items and knitted of brow as I try to remember who bought the damned thing in the first place. (His default is that I probably did. This is one of those generous divorces.) My boxes arrive tomorrow. Saturday and Sunday will be devoted to packing; anyone who wishes to come and assist is extremely welcome, I will feed them tea and/or gin as required.
Also, if you've bagsed books from the giveaway piles, please can we arrange for you to collect them or me to deliver them in the next few days? I'm going to need that floorspace...
Isn't it weird that you can hear a song over and over again until it's part of your general musical background and the lyrics are a pop-culture commonplace, and yet the identity of the singer can be a total shock? Who the hell is Jona Lewie? I always assumed the song was from Men Without Hats or Men At Work or some other early 80s all-male outfit not necessarily with "Men" in the title. But I suppose the 80s were also a bit of a blur.
I suppose I shouldn't point fingers at my Evil Landlord about paying an IBurst subscription pointlessly for, ooh, five years now (I got the ADSL when my dad moved to CT, which was in 2009, so it's been a while...), because one of the more positive upshots of today's earful of hold music was that the insurance company noticed I'd been paying a minor bit of insurance on my old Citigolf for over a year after I sold the car, since they apparently didn't cancel it as I asked when I cancelled the main insurance. They are going to refund me. Possibly I can afford a kettle for my spanky new kitchen. Which is good, because tea withdrawal is possibly slightly more ugly than the internet withdrawal, all things considered.
In the Department of my Spanky New Kitchen, I now have a fridge and washing machine, both spanky. Jo came and hand-held me on Sunday while efficient little ladies in Tafelberg Furnishers steered me expertly to the maximum possible expenditure within my budget. (Salespeople are scary, have you noticed? But both appliances on special offer at around R2000 total off their value). They're delivered on Friday. Removals proper happen on Monday. The kitchen chez Evil Landlord is piled with tottering piles of kitchenware as I negotiate the tricky procedure of extricating my stuff from his. This is not assisted materially by my proverbial cheese-brain, which means any selection process is punctuated with treks down the passage to his study, clutching various items and knitted of brow as I try to remember who bought the damned thing in the first place. (His default is that I probably did. This is one of those generous divorces.) My boxes arrive tomorrow. Saturday and Sunday will be devoted to packing; anyone who wishes to come and assist is extremely welcome, I will feed them tea and/or gin as required.
Also, if you've bagsed books from the giveaway piles, please can we arrange for you to collect them or me to deliver them in the next few days? I'm going to need that floorspace...
Isn't it weird that you can hear a song over and over again until it's part of your general musical background and the lyrics are a pop-culture commonplace, and yet the identity of the singer can be a total shock? Who the hell is Jona Lewie? I always assumed the song was from Men Without Hats or Men At Work or some other early 80s all-male outfit not necessarily with "Men" in the title. But I suppose the 80s were also a bit of a blur.