Life in London is getting pretty stressful. I spend a lot of my time chasing up on people to get all the jobs done that need doing before I can leave, and now we’re getting low on time and the list isn’t getting any smaller.
If I ever meet a reliable, honest builder then I shall marry him, or chain him up somewhere, to stop him getting away again. Waiting for builders to call me back (or not) is draining me.
Spending such a huge amount of time indoors sorting through boxes of stuff trying to whittle my storage down to 15 square feet (I don’t even understand what that means. Why are we still using these archaic measurements anyway?) is depressing me no end.
How did I end up with so many things? Well the sad truth is that around 80% of the stuff I have boxed up ready for storage belonged originally to my mother and I feel too guilty to throw it out, even although if you listen to the gossip of my extended family they will happily tell you how I ‘just threw everything away’. After all, it’s a well known fact that there is a direct correlation between how much you love your parents and how much of their accumulated junk you are prepared to store for the rest of you life after they die.
On top of all that I came home from Holland to find water dripping out of my electrics in the kitchen again. One of the criteria for renting out the flat is that I need a current electrical safety certificate, which is going to be a problem with water dripping out of a socket I think.
I try to distract myself with activities but then I feel guilty that it’s my fault that nothing’s getting done, even though there’s nothing I can do until the builder calls back and the water stops dripping.