Yesterday I made my way home from a thoroughly enjoyable few days, when I either saw or spoke with some of the people who matter most to me. The journey was astonishingly smooth; the longest I had to wait for either trains or buses was only four minutes.
The lower reaches of the Thames are lined with marshes of the most appalling dreariness. Everything looks so grimy and sad. Even the vegetation, covered in the black, poisonous accretions of the centuries, looks as though it is surviving out of sheer spite. There is something deeply disturbing, deeply menacing about the place, particularly when seen through a heavy fall of sleet. There were no birds to be seen, apart from the odd crow here and there, fluttering ominously in the distance. Even the villages look dingy and forlorn, and from the train they look quite deserted. I was glad to leave the place.
The glaziers were supposed to be coming to repair my broken front-door window this afternoon, but the cunts rang yesterday to cancel for a second time. I'm afraid I did make the secretary's ears burn a bit, but so what. It's shocking bad service.
It rained quite heavily during the afternoon, and I noticed a couple of leaks in the kitchen ceiling. I'll need to let the landlord know. Also in the kitchen the posh lighting has packed up, so I'll have to tell him that too. My washing machine will be plumbed in next week, which will make life much easier. I don't like walking around in dirty clothes. Once that's done I'll contact the landlord. I don't want him to see the kitchen as it is.
This morning I ordered myself a few of the old films I like, to cheer me up.
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