I’ve thoroughly enjoyed doing the last two days of blogs and putting actual substance in them, but this enjoyment must be, to put it lightly, shot to shit today as once again I find time is of the essence. Unfortunately the essence is eau d’ shot to shit as the afternoon’s minute and second resources were mostly used on making inane banter with my soon to be flatmates whilst a lady in Santander tried to find reason as to why joint accounts now only allow a maximum of two people on them. Yes. That apparently is a new rule within the ever deceitful money laundering establishment that is the banking system. No more than two names on a single account, just incase the bank’s screw everyone over again and there is power in number when 3+ people shout at them for the ever increasing interest on their overdraft yet decreasing interest on their savings. Or something. And I mean 3+ as in ‘more than three people’ not toddlers waving poo filled nappies at a startled cashier. So there was much discussion as to whose names should be on the account and sensible debate about responsibility. Actually, I lie. In about 10 seconds we reckoned Tom should certainly have no part in money accountability and shunned him from form filling. Then, despite all the hoards of cash they’ve gained in bonuses, their own investment and the harvesting of children’s souls (probably) the system was being slow and so instead we made comment on inane childish subjects such as wee clouds until they almost drove us out.
So, to cut a long dull story short, even though you’ve heard many parts of it already since flat hunting started some time ago, I now have a flat to live in. Moving procedures will happen on Monday and as of that point I will be what’s known as a Muswell Hillian. I join the ranks of such mega stars as Clive Owen and probably some people from Eastenders. That’s right. I’m going up in the world. Oddly by living slightly on a downhill slope. Of course, you could look at it as an upwards climb, but I don’t. Its definitely a downhill slope. I sincerely hope that on Monday the residents of the leafy North London area are out in the masses, waving us into our new abode with flags, rose petals and a 21 gun salute. Not that they have guns in Muswell Hill. They leave that for the Wood Green lot. In reality, I’m terrified the other residents of our area will peer out of their 6 bed houses at our tiny corner based granny annex of a building and say comments such as ‘there goes the neighbourhood’, ‘that’ll decrease the value of our building’ and ‘ Why does one insist on only wearing his yellow pants everywhere while the other is always dressed as a blue wolf?’
It will be a new era for me, and a new era for Muswell Hill as I live in it like a parasite. I have intentions of perusing Ally Pally (see I even call it that, its like I live there already) on a morning stroll before going somewhere sophisticated for a coffee whilst I write that day’s blog. No longer will be it be about such inane things as they currently are. No, thanks to my surroundings I will be typing Haiku (better than Lowku or Byeku. Arf) about the beautiful things in life. Stuff like:
Oh bourbon biscuit
Three layers of fondness but
diabetic trauma
Amazing huh? No? No. Sigh. I fear the locals may soon be lighting burning sticks and trying to make us leave within a week…
