The locks on my flat had been changed, but the cheapskate bank (or whoever) used stupid locks that were near enough pickable with a paperclip. To think my expensive hardware was that insecure. To think that my expensive hardware is scrap these days. As I entered I saw burn marks up the wall by the stairs. Blatantly arsonish. I mean, there's no electric or gas point anything there. What exactly would catch fire if it wasn't put there with the intention of catching fire? If Sopowitz had been clever he'd have simply set a small fire in the cupboard by the door. It is full of junk mail. There is a 150 litre bin bag and I empty it when the stupid advertising circulars no longer fit. It would have burned the place down, but I guess looking in cupboards is something women do regularly while men just pretend they might do it if persuaded often enough.
No electricity. The fuse-board looks okay. The meter is dead. I smash the master fuse socket open with the business end of a mallet and, using insulated pliers, I shove in a Draper spanner. That oughta carry sixty amps.
The phone line is more of a problem. The outside phone lines have been removed and outside my door is a stupid little cableco box with a stupid bunch of terminal blocks in it. It looks like everybody on the street has one. No problems. I'll take my laptop and acoustic modem and I'll set myself up for the telecom broadband.
My laptop is dead. Not only is the battery pack well past it, but the CMOS RAM is history too. Nothing wants to hold a charge.
My main computer is just the same. No charge, no remembering what I set it to. Oh my god, what the hell was my login password anyway?
This isn't fun. Really it isn't.
There's a beer in the fridge. Warm, expired two years ago, but it'll do. I stab a hole in the bottom with a Bic pen and I put this hole to my mouth. I flip the ring-pull and feel the beer pour into my stomach.
I don't feel better. I down another can, and then an entire bottle of stupid beaujolais goes down the hatch.
Some drink to remember and some drink to forget. I can't bloody remember what I'm trying to forget.
Then another beer. That's the extent of my alcohol collection. A bottle of crappy wine and cheap beer with fake German words written on the side.
Am I happier? No. Do I feel better? Not really. You know, this getting drunk lark is way overrated.
Anyhoo, I'll just sit here on the lino in the kitchen and let this lot percolate. Lemsip doesn't work immediately, neither does Ritalin nor Prozac. Give it time, yes?
I ztil dun feel zoh goot buh I iz awlouta beer'n'shet.
Yu no wat? Bugr this fuh games a'soljers. Me guna go bed now.
Uh, but ferst pewkes me. Dam.