A couple of hours of sweat with a screwdriver and my window opens again. Never underestimate the power of swearing. No way I’d have fixed it had I not been swearing like a trooper. Leverage with a screwdriver and sheer bloody mindedness helped, perhaps. But mostly it was the swearing. My sharp words shredded the paint. Hungover Al, banging a screwdriver through the side of the window, angry and inventive with invective. And suddenly, with a jolt, it snapped. Air in my room again. That moment when something stubborn breaks… It’s amazing. Like when the painkiller suddenly kicks in to the headache. Like when the spot bursts. Like when the sneeze finally comes. The window just gasped … moved. And immediately it was alright again. Parades of singing ten pound notes that were waving farewell in my imagination suddenly giggled and vanished into the air, no more than the bad expectations of someone who has occasionally been fucked over but has his own Goddamn flat in London full of Americans and light and life and warmth, and has nothing to complain about in the scheme of things. Nothing.
To celebrate, we cleaned and dusted and arranged every inch of my bedroom. Now I have a glorious fresh room with a window you can open and places for everything. Just as well really, as Phil is coming to get the van back tomorrow so I have to take everything else that is in it and get it up to my flat. Now I have places to put the boxes until I’ve made sense of the contents. Books mostly. I’ll want to keep them all. I won’t be able. I’m having to learn to be disciplined and discerning. Still, it’s likely that after a day of work making my room look nice we are going to have to spend another day filling it up with dusty boxes. Urgh. Still it was therapeutic to be so thorough. It’s a good starting point. And I might just have to make some quick decisions and take more stuff to the charity shop than I usually would allow myself to. At least I’ve had some company through this.
The flat’s full of Americans and Mel has been calling a lot of the shots today. I’m on the sofa again. Pickle is a bit pissed off as she can’t get into my room with Mel being allergic to cats. She hasn’t protest shat anywhere which might be progress. But Mel has been helping me work out the order in which to do stuff. Now everyone is in bed. Mel is locked into my clean bedroom, safe from the cat, free of the dust. Anna is in Brian’s room, kindly leaving the door open a crack in case Pickle wants to jump around on her while she’s sleeping. I’m about to turn in on the comfy sofa, sleepy and much more sober and better fed then I’d usually be on a Sunday evening thanks to Mel’s influence. Pickle is going to sleep directly on top of me again. Nothing I can do about that in here. She’s planning her route.
Much to do next week. Brian’s back on Thursday and there’s no way I’ll let him walk in and find the place worse than it was when he went to Namibia.