A man called William is going to come to the flat tomorrow. He is laconic and spare on the phone. His tone is downbeat and deliberately faintly patronising. He’s already expecting a load of tut. He’s going to look at these naval placards and spitfire bits, these weird porcelain gewgaws, these shiny things from my uncle and my grandparents and my mum and my dad and the recent smokehouse clearance where I’m choosing what I keep as I reckon I’m living in a flat in London for another decade rather than a stately home. It has got to the point where I have to have someone else take stuff away as there is actively no room. I have a horrible feeling he’ll try and say “I’ll take it all for a fiver.” In which case I shall (carefully) hound him out of my property with a broom. Or I’ll set Pickle on him.
I’m off out in July. I may be some time. Oxford for two weeks. Insanity and motorbikes for two weeks. London for two weeks. All over the place for a month or two. Back blinking into Christmas Carol. January is a mountain waiting to be conquered. But I’ve already won the rest of this year.
When I’m gone I’ve got two choices. Either sublet my bedroom in my nice flat that isn’t full of antiques, or turn my bedroom into the terrifying antiquehole of doom and occasionally allow shivering friends to curl up alongside ancient relics and wonder why the cat still wants to sleep on top of them in this hellhole. I’d sooner option 1 if I can find the right tenant. And for Brian as well as for me I’ve got to get this shit solved. Plus there might be money at the end of it and I’m going to need to buy me a 650cc motorbike. All reasonable offers considered, although right at this moment I haven’t got the 1.5k I’m earmarking for it. I’d sooner not buy a shit motorbike like I do with cars. I can get away with driving shit cars because if my engine suddenly dies at 70mph I’m much less certain to die too. I’m spending if it’s two wheels. Four wheels good. Two wheels bar.
God I hope William isn’t as much of an asshole as he sounds. Maybe he can help pay for the bike. Maybe he can’t. Nothing is ever a solution to anything as life is constantly evolving. But even if I’m not looking for a quick fix, the current home situation is untenable. If I can find a system and put all but one box away then I could happily make this my secondary income stream for much of the rest of my life. Learning and selling. It’s joyful. There’s a load of stuff shared with Max that’s in storage. There’s similar stuff in the Isle of Man. Stuff in my attic. Stuff in the fecking living room and the damned corridor for goodness sake. It has to go. But William might not be the help I’m looking for. I have a feeling he’ll be a self righteous arsehole. He’s coming at ten tomorrow. I’ll know in seconds of meeting him how it’ll go… Right now I’m debating as to whether the best tactic to de-arsehole him is three-piece, tie and plums or if it’s slacks and “well I’ve got all this stuff mate.” They’re both authentic me but one of them will play better than the other. I have a feeling he’ll arrive in a shabby suit with polished shoes and long hair though, frankly. I can’t do the long hair but maybe that’s the costume…