Tuesday, 23 September 2008

EIGHT WEEKS?!?!?!

Current mood:  sick
The agency STILL haven't paid David what they owe him?  He's being a wimp and not complaining, so last week Mum and I told him to ring them up and ask them straight out what was happening about the money.
So he goes upstairs and makes a private phone call.  Upon his return, we ask him what's happening about it all.  No mention of the money they owe him, BUT they've offered him some work for Monday (this morning), Tuesday and Thursday.
David's answer to this - he's quite prepared to help them out.  He "knows they'll pay him in the end!"!  Gosh, how can he trust those people?
Anyways, he went out at 8am, and returned at noon.  Then we set off for the latest meeting with the Sicktons.  Yes, plural Sickton.  We had to meet the wife he never married too today so that she could tell us what colours to paint the walls.
Oh, and yes, that's definitely only the walls.  Our ceilings and woodwork MUST be white.  We get no choice in the matter.  I won't even go into the colours she's decided upon for us.  Most of them represent the colour kids always seem to get in their paint pallets when they mix all the colours together - you know, somewhere between vomit and stagnant coffee.
She rushed us through the whole house, while I got more and more angry.  But I'd been ordered not to say a word, so I kept my mouth shut like a good girl.  She dashed out of the house without even looking at the toilet under the stairs - so much for us getting such a deal on her advice (she usually charges £150 per hour.  We've only paid £1000.  Er...she spent about an hour and a half with us, then she "had to rush off somewhere")  But about 30 minutes later, when we were still pointing all the faults out to her stupid husband, she returned (she really had "rushed off somewhere", hadn't she?!) to tell us that we had got a parking ticket.  So that's another £50 on top!
Now let's run through a couple of of the stupid things that Chris said - the orange mould on the wall isn't mould (even though the clumps are so big now you can clearly see all the fungus spores) - it's a residue from the salt.  And no, we don't know what salt.  None of us asked him - we were too stunned to see him crushing the fungus with his bare hands and spreading it all over the walls, before quickly opening the window.  "We can paint over this stuff once the wall dries...I'm surprised it hasn't dried by now."  Can you really, Mr Sickton?!  I think the mould might just cut through the paint unless you admit what it is and treat it first!
The oven, microwave and washing machine were delivered today, but have been dumped in the front room.  No, the builders weren't even working there today, when they knew we were going to be over there!
The reason why?  They've "stopped work until we decide what to do with the awful patio doors/back door"!  Um, so that's why they've ceased work on the entire house?!  Shouldn't they at least be emptying the kitchen of all the stuff that isn't even related to our work?
Finally, he spoke to us about the doors in question.  We asked when Picton actually intends ..ing the job now.  Picton now says that work would be complete in FOUR WEEKS.  So much for us being four weeks ahead of schedule - the contract claims we're moving next Monday.  
At that point, I walked out.  I needed air, and knew I was going to snap at Picton if I didn't get out of there.  So I walked up to the charity shop around the corner - nothing there, thank goodness.  The last thing I need is to buy more duplicate ponies just because I'm feeling down.
When I returned, everyone was still arguing, but it appeared they came to the conclusion not to do anything about the ugly doors.  That shocked me, to be quite honest, but I didn't say anything.  We were then invited over to Picton's house, so that he could show Mum that transparent showers are not as dirty as she thinks they are.  He showed an incredibly filthy shower, and even Mum told him what she thought of it.
Next we went to sit down in the back room, something I really didn't want to do.  Not to be too descriptive, but let's just say it's that time of the month when I fear making a mess of other people's furniture.  And it's particularly bad this month, so don't come near me, rubbing me up the wrong way.  My hormones are everywhere.
And to make it worse, out in the garden in the pouring rain, I see a cage.  It turns out Picton's horrible rough children have two new guinea pigs, which get left out in the awful weather.  When the rain stopped, they came out and started munching on grass - poor darlings.  They're beautiful, and one of them reminds me so much of my little Sparkle, but as an Abyssinian.  They don't deserve to be stuffed with that horrid family.
So there I am, precariously balancing on the edge of the chair, trying not to touch it, with awful pains in my stomach, legs and everywhere in between (I guess the stress was making it worse - I've still got it now), fighting back tears over these sweet little piggies, when the hammer comes down on my head.
David HAD decided to get one door changed...just not the other, even though nobody had told me.  That seems pretty pointless to me.  It will cause a delay, and not even give us the result we want.  And what is the delay.  ANOTHER FOUR WEEKS!  Yes, we're now not moving until the end of November - at the earliest.  Knowing Picton, I should imagine that means about March.
I'm afraid I went a little mad again.  I pretty much kept my mouth shut, but turned away to hide my tears, which angered my parents just as much because I "wasn't being friendly enough".
Picton tried to break up the situation, and took us to look at another shower.  Mum said bitterly, "Now you've made her want guinea pigs again - you know you can't have them, Desiree.  We're going on holidays instead."  The way she put me down really annoyed me.  "If we ever move, I shall go out and get myself some guinea pigs.  You can go on your holidays on your own."  I snapped, in a silly childish way.  Mum gave me a filthy look, but no more was said.
However, when we returned to David at the table, Mum says to him, "Desiree's giving me H*ll - she even swore in front of him.  Get us out of here."  WTH?  I never swore in front of Picton, did I?  Well, unless saying "guinea pig" counts as swearing!  Obviously, I got even more annoyed, and told David that if he wants to change just one window, he can bloomin' well give me a mattress to sleep on in the meantime.  "Shut up!" he hissed, as Chris walked down the stairs.  "Oh sure, I'll play happy families again." I rolled my eyes at him deliberately, then went back to my fixed smile for Picton's benefit.
After leaving the place and getting back in the car, I was still fuming, and started screaching again.  I'm scared of myself - my depression is getting out of hand now.  In the end, David pulled the car up at the side of the road.  I know what his plan was - he was going to tell me to get out and find a hostel again.  I laughed in his face, so he said that wasn't his intention.  He got out of the car, and opened my door, grabbed hold of my arm and twisted it, and put his other hand around my neck, acting like he was going to strangle me.  I knew he wouldn't really though, so still I laughed at him.  Idiot.  All because I dared to get upset that I'm really not going to have to bed until I'm almost 18 now.
When he got back in the car, I felt the back of my hand stinging, and saw he'd scratched up all the dry skin there, so I hit him over the shoulder with a volvic bottle half full of apple juice.
We argued the rest of the way back to Grottsville - Why must I mention the fact I have no bed when Picton could have heard me - David's so ashamed of it.  Yeah, right.  Then why did he never do anything about it?  I told him if Picton had the mind to type my name into Google, he could easily find this blog anyway.  "But woy do ya 'ave to tell the 'ole world our business?!"  Well, I'm sorry, David.  But I have no real life friends to talk to.  You made sure of that.  My internet friends are so kind to me though, and a problem shared is a problem halved, right?  (If any of you want me to shut up, just tell me.  Writing these blogs just relieves so much of my stress.)  He says I've gone mad (true), and shouldn't worry about my education (doesn't that make him mad as well?).  I was the one who didn't want to go to school when I was four.  Er...  How can a 4-year-old have made that decision, and Mum taught me at that age anyway.  We're talking about secondary education, which I was going to get when we moved house.  But he never moved us, did he?  Why do all the male human beings in my life lie to me?  I'm so scared of men now.
David's not talking to me.  He punished Mum for about two hours by not going and getting her any lucozade, because it might mean getting us a joint dinner.  Well, tough.  He can sulk all he likes.  Now I'm stuck in misery for another eight weeks.  It just feels so good over there, being able to just walk out and go for a stroll.  I feel like I could actually take control of my life, and do something over there.  But now it won't be until next year.  I can guarantee that.
Sorry for moaning, but I don't know how much longer I can survive here.

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