Wednesday, 25 February 2009

And it just gets worse...

Current mood:  sick

Mum was in a fowl mood this morning, but still David insisted she must go to Woodberry to "look at the green for his office".  Now remember, his office is in what should have been her bedroom had the loft stairs not forced the wall over too far.  So that room is a sensitive subject for her.
Anyways, she gets there, and announces she doesn't like the green.  She also doesn't like te new colour on the ceiling in the hobby room and can't see any difference between it and the original, and hates her bedroom colours because they look too light.
David agrees to have the green anyways, and Mum goes mad.  Of course, there were other things that helped to tip her over the edge.
"A couple of days" have passed since David gave the builders even longer to fix the kitchen countertop, and they haven't even touched it, let alone fixed it.  He's too much of a wimp to say anything though.
They have now cleaned the Coke stain from David's wall, and it STILL looks a mess.  We can still clearly see the sticky streak running down to the skirting board.  He says it doesn't matter, but for goodness sake!  WHY should we live with a great big brown sticky stain in a brand new house?!
Oh, and David now announces that all the floorboards have still got to come up downstairs in order to run cables into Mum's family history room (which she's now saying she doesn't want as a family history room anyway!) for a computer and telephone.  Mum and I had not been told that those cables weren't already in place.
I asked David how he proposed that I would be preparing my food in ten days time with no countertop, and no floor in the kitchen.  "You'll 'ave to come 'ome to get ya food, won't ya?" He said, casually.  I blew up at that point.  "A house where I have as much independence as a prisoner, no bed and no chair, is NOT a home.  And how are you going to afford the petrol to drive me backwards and forwards three times a day?"  He just shrugged.  He obviously doesn't believe me when I say I'm moving into Woodberry.
And then just as the icing on the cake, Craig, the useless painter who keeps taking endless days off, splashing dirty water and paint all over the (painted) bathroom, and isn't doing a particularly good job of painting the walls anyway, threatens to leave again, as he has work elsewhere.  If we want him to stay, we need to provide him with colours for the rooms which are quite clearly NOT ready for decorating, like the kitchen and extension where so much work still needs to be done.
Oh, and when Mum and I were on the verge of screaming, Craig added, "Well, Jacqui, I suppose you'll be moving in in the next couple of weeks."  Besides the fact that his common English accent makes me feel thoroughly sick, that is a plain lie.  The house won't be ready for moving to in the next couple of weeks!  Mum pointed out that's what they'd been saying since last September.  "I didn't say it, love.  Maybe Rob and Chris did." (like that makes any difference). "Picton's a bl**dy liar." Mum answered, and continued to quietly rant about him as she made her way downstairs.  I saw trouble brewing and went for a walk down to the three local charity shops - one was shut, and there was some kind of emergency in another, with an old man who'd gone in there, sat on one of the sofas for sale and was refusing to move.  A paramedic arrived just as I did and began asking the man questions.  It seemed the bloke had walked there from a local nursing home, and tired himself out...  So everyone was told to leave the shop.   Life is weird.  Anyways, no pony finds for me obviously.
When I got back, Mum was pacing up and down on the opposite side of the road.  Obviously, there had been a huge swearing match while I was away.  And it just continued, with her ranting at the top of her voice, asking David why he'd made her come if her opinion wasn't wanted.  All the time, everyone was staring at us, and I was begging David, "Open the car door, PLEASE!" but he refused, and so I was left in the middle of it.  He's hardly talking to either of us now (Yes, it seems I did wrong too, despite the fact I was two streets away at the time!), and has sulkily slept the evening away in the bathroom doorway.
Nothing else to say really.  My voice is just about back now, but my head is pounding, and I still feel dizzy.  And I have stomach ache from comfort eating.  I've consumed three hot cross buns and around twenty chocolate wafer biscuits today.  I must just try to focus on my dreams.  They're all so near and yet so far; I can't see me ever making it as a voice actress in Canada now.  But I hope we will move house and I'll at least be able to do something with my life.  Mum's still saying she's in no hurry to move though, now that my 18th birthday plans have flown out the window, so God only knows when we will get out of here.
I'm sorry to end on such a dreary note, I really am.  I just wish I could write about something cheerful for once, and surprise you all.  Perhaps I'll have to stop writing about reality and write a fictional story instead!  Even a murder mystery would surely seem like a fairytale compared to this.
Speak to you all soon!
Desirée Skylark  xxx

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