The bells, the bells.

I am 58 years of age. I am neither especially proud nor particularly ashamed of this statistic, but mention it in order to remind my reader(s) that my once proud liberal tolerance and forbearance of the foibles of my fellow humans is, inevitably, worn now a little thin, and my general attitude to those same fellow humans more Genghis Khan than Gandhi these days.

For many this long year now, I have, from both choice and neccessity, lived in rented flats of various sorts, various qualities, in a variety of types of neighbourhood, and with a wide variety of types of people sharing the same building and, in some cases, parts of the living spaces. Some of these have been fairly dodgy characters, and not the sort of person you would take to your mum's for dinner; drug addicts, thieves, whores and even Estate Agents, but none of them have ever caused me as much irritation and annoyance as the folk who are the subject of this week's rant. And it is a rant; I make no claim to reasonableness or tolerance here, I'm just gonna go for it and get the bile and hate off my chest.

My issue is with people who come to a building which has flats in it, and ring my bloody doorbell when they want to see someone else!!!!!! What causes this is that some character who wants to see Dave* (or whoever) has rung Dave's bell, or knocked his window, or shouted up at it, and got no response. This will be because Dave is a) out, b) in prison/on the run/on holiday/away working, c) dead, d) doesn't live here, e) doesn't exist, all of which should, in my view, be obvious to anyone who has borrowed a brain cell for the day. Then they see my doorbell, which has my name and/or my flat number on it, so they press it. When I answer the door, they say something like 'is Dave in?'

Why should I know, or care? How should I know, or care? Dave lives in a different flat, with a different life, and because we live so uncomfortably close to each other, he keeps himself largely to himself and so do I. So 'I would have no idea' I reply. Looking a bit annoyed (oh yes, these morons think they are the ones being inconvenienced here), they inevitably now say 'well, I thought you might know, seeing you are his neighbour'! When I was young, and lived in a house which was occupied entirely by my family in one household, I cannot remember anybody, ever, ringing or knocking the door and asking if Mrs. Ress 3 doors away was in, because they would not have expected any of us to know. Living in a flat should be like that, but it never is.

I blame that 60s sitcom where Robin Nedwell shares a house with two attractive girls for all this (was it called 3's a Crowd?). It has engendered amongst people who live in entire houses a myth that flat dwellers are always in and out of each others' tenancies borrowing cups of sugar and such. The reality is nothing like this, and while I sort of generally look out for the well being of those who live in the same buildings as me, and they generally do the same, and we bid each other 'good morning' (morning-who am I trying to kid!) when we pass in the communal hallways, that is as far as it goes. Living in smaller, and partly shared, circumstances neccessarily means that personal boundaries are more strictly observed by default, on top of which we are British, dammit!

Also, it is the nature of things that flat types are fairly mobile (and not always upwardly) and in houses where there may be more than half a dozen occupants in separate homes, it is not easy to keep track even if you felt the need, and I don't.

Entry communication systems are not the answer either, although they may save you the walk to the front door. 'Beeblbeep' goes your little intercom phone, you pick it up and say 'yes?', and there it is, the same inquisitve idiot voice asking 'is Dave in, mate'. 'Have you rung his bell?', to which the response is either 'Yes, but he didn't answer' or 'No, mate, dunno his number'. The safe distance imposed by the intercom gives me full licence to let rip at the fool.

Please, if you want to contact someone who lives in flats, find out which one they live in, and knock on thier door or ring thier bell. Stop bloody ringing mine!!!!!! I am considering replacing the bell with a note asking callers to phone me instead and I will come to the door, but not including my phone number. This would have the advantage that people who don't know my phone number wouldn't be able to call me, and if you don't know my phone number you have no legitimate business speaking to me anyway!

Rant over (for now).

*generic flat dweller not intended to represent any real person, especially Dave.**

** whoever he is.***

***and I don't know if he's in either. Have you tried ringing his doorbell?

The Throne of Contemplation

The rented flat in which I live is a fine place, well decorated and appointed in a modern style, and though I have been here only a little over 6 weeks, I am so far content with it, and it is certainly a major improvement on my previous hovel. A minor grouse, however, was the toilet seat, a flimsy white plastic arrangement which moved underneath me in a rather disconcerting way. Now, without going into the grimmer details of the business, it seems to me to be a basic human right of the sort delineated in the United Nations Charter of Human Rights that a person in such a situation should not be disconcerted, but on the way to, if not Nirvana, at least a kind of inner peace...

So I took the bull by the hornybits and went out and bought a mahogany veneered throne seat. The improvement is considerable and immediate! This is only a cheap, mahogany effect veneered thing, the bulk of which may well be mdf, or plastic, or anything really, but it is the bulk of the thing which counts. When I rest my ample form on it, it stays where it should stay. It doesn't flex and bend. It doesn't slide sideways and make you re-position yourself to balance it on the rim. It just quietly does what it does, and I like it!

Also, it looks mahogany. Not only does this remind me of my childhood toilet, an important part of anyone's early life, but mahogany seems to me to impart a certain gravitas to the proceedings. A mahogany toilet is a Man's toilet, for a Man's life in a Man's world. What re-assurance! No namby-pamby apologist pine to go with your girly pastels shades, no pseudo hippy dolphins or reiki pebbles, but good old fashioned, manly, dark, serious mahogany, redolent of a lost age of Victorian certainty. Now I am fully aware that the lost age of Victorian certainty was an age of racism, warmongering, child prostitution and consumptive illnesses, and lost is a bloody good place for it, but surely there is no harm in it in a bathroom.

This is my flat. That is my toilet. If you want the seat down, put it down and don't complain to me.

Another Week in a life....

...and not much stuff is happening, which is the way I like it. Not that I am one of those sort of people who had a highly adventurous youth, got away with it just, and is now so relieved that he is never going to do anything like that again!-I have always liked a quiet, safe life, on the borders of boredom and contentment.

I keep tropical fishes. Always have, maybe to do with my being a Piscean. From an early age, there have been fishes in my rooms, despite the logistical nightmare they provide if you move house! I've never had any problems from the cats I've had over the years either. Anyway, those of you who are fish people will understand the sheer joy with which I fulfilled a long held ambition and purchased several Discus this week. These guys are not cheap, nor easy to set up for, but they are so worth the effort. They are simply spectacular; beautiful, graceful, full of personality. They have so far settled in with no problems, and are currently enthusiastically chasing each other around the tank trying to establish a pecking order.

The non-fish folk can safely come back now. So far as I know, the only people who have read this blog are those who know me personally and are used to my various oddnesses, and therfore sort of don't count (sorry guys!). I would really appreciate if you are someone who doesn't know me, but are just reading this out of boredom or curiosity, if you would make your prescence known. I won't bother you with a conversation or anything-promise-but it'd be nice to know if I'm just venting my occasional need to write into the cyber-darkness or not.

I'm usually philosophical about the weather, an unusual trait in someone British. I get irritated by people who complain when it rains, as if that is somehow an unexpected and calamitous event on an island off the coast of NW Europe where the prevailing winds are from the sea, or that they are cold, at a latitude where most other people in the world experience real cold as opposed to the slight coolness that passes for cold here (it must be close on 30 years since it has been frozen all day where I live). Gotta say though, that spring is late this year, it is now April and we have yet to have a properly warm day-you know, the sort where girls start to look even prettier and all the flowers bloom at once. My birthday is in late February, and I have for many years noticed when the daffodils bloom locally, and being especially pleased it that happens on my birthday or St. David's Day (I'm Welsh). They were a good 4 weeks late this year, and that may be partly due to the cool, wet summer last year, but it must also reflect the dull, cool dragging of winter into a spring which seems to so far have been a slightly warmer version of winter this year. We are probably shaping up for another damp squib of a summer, and I suppose I should be grateful, as I do not thrive in hot weather, but the truth is that even I am getting sick of it all.

Maybe a holiday somewhere bright and sunny would be a good idea, but I can't really justify the expense. I don't work (for health reasons), so I cannot take expensive decisions lightly! Any resident of the Seychelles who wants to pay for me to visit them for a couple of weeks, get in touch (dream on, boy, dream on).

The rain has stopped and I have some shopping to do, and anyway my muse has dried up, so....