HUMOR

Just Moved In!

Happy About Your New Flat? Here Comes the Poop

What a marvellous morning. You just woke up in your new flat. The sun is shining through ethereal linen curtains that slow-dance in front of the window ajar and cast abstract shadows all over the bedroom. The buzz of the city reaches your 16th-floor apartment only slightly and it sounds like Ocean, irrepressible yet dreamy, endlessly licking foreign foreshores with a zen attitude. You stretch your arms and breathe in lungfuls of that pleasant breeze invading your morning with the grace of rose petals. You just moved in, and the world smells like Mediterranean holidays.

Only that you are in London.

The gentle breeze ain’t so gentle after only 8–9 minutes, the sky promises nothing but greyness, no more dancing ikea drapes, no more poetry and, at the first cloud, the sun packs its bags and flies back to Italy.

Whatever. Life is Beautiful, you scribble on your Moleskine as you sip tea and chomp on cake. One last mouthful and you’re ready to kickstart the day:

Today’s Keypoints

• Register the appliances.
• Registered all the appliances.
• Almost broke one appliance while double-checking the product number.
• Swore a few gods, but without shouting cause today is a good day.
• While trying to put the appliance back in its default status, I found out the useless builders made it faulty in the first place so it wasn’t my fault.
• Fixed the appliance. Silently cursed the builders.
• Relaxed a little. Ready for the next task.
• Get the communal riser cupboard keys, find the smart meters and contact the suppliers. Piece of cake.
• Where are the keys?
• Desk — no.
• Kitchen drawer — no.
• Pouch containing a million unreadable docs and inexplicable bits supplied by the Housing Association?— don’t think so.
• Call the girlfriend — do we have the… uh?
• Girlfriend says — don’t you remember? (no) you have to get them from the building manager (ah).
• And…
• All the contacts are in the Home User Guide (the what?), first drawer on the right (where?) of the desk (ooh).
• Found that sort of unholy Bible.
• Welcome to Your New Home! Shouts the glossy cover of that pointless thing. Do I really need an instruction manual for using my home? Don’t you think I can manage to open the front door with the extra normal metal key you supplied or, I don’t know, flush the toilet, or find the goddamn communal riser cupboard keys to access the bloody smart meters and contact the…
• I need to calm down.
• I flick through the pages and voila, section 2. All useful contacts are printed in capital numbers, bold and underlined. Brilliant.
• Tried to contact the building manager.
• The provided phone number is not working.
• Must have dialled it wrongly.
• The provided phone number is not working.
• Shut up.
• The provided phone number is not working.
• Multiple attempts later, harmonised by a fistful of unpronounceably-good bad words, I give up.
• No luck. Is that a problem? No. I try the second contact on the list.
• I tailor the perfect email, a bit sarcastic yet formal message that says need you now, please help! obviously written in a much better way than this.
• Sent.
• The phone blips me back a reply in a matter of seconds and, wow, this was quick. It must be the building manager amused by my selection of not-completely offensive words. Brilliant. Efficiency at its best. I tap on the message and read

Message blocked

Your message has been blocked. See technical details below for more information.

• What???
• I think it’s a joke.
• It’s not a joke.
• Apparently, all the contacts we had were useless. Completely, utterly useless, goddammit!
• Went down into the gutters of the bleeding building to find the unresponsive fucker.
• He’s not there.
• I’m steaming. I tap/knock/bam! on the office door even though I can clearly see through the glass panel that the room is empty.
• 5 minutes later
• He there now? You wish.
• 10 min
• Is he… no, no. Noooooooo!
• 15 min.
• I think, yeah not so fast, take your time. Stroll a bit slower if you can, try to slow-motion a limped saunter, you bast… rrr… d.
• 20 min.
• The man arrives carrying an oversized bucket of coffee and some pastry I hope he’s gonna choke on. He smiles. I don’t.
• I demand and obtain the real email address of the fucker aka building whatever aka him.
• Finally got to the so-called smart meters.
• I part ways with that dubiously friendly individual and wish to never need him again in my life. Anyway,
• I’m back on track, life is beautiful once more.
• In a few clicks, I register with Scot’ish Powa and found out that without Direct Debit, we (the girlfriend and I) were spending a lot more (like 10%more) consuming the exact same shit.
• Realised that thievery has no limits, Sector watches might have been inspired by that.
• Went Direct Debit.
• Clicked complete move.
• Sigh of relief. Mission accomplished.
• The complete move thing doesn’t seem to complete itself.
• Round loading bullshit still circling like a shark.
• Refresh
• It gets worse.
• Refresh
• Unresponsive.
• Refresh
• …
• Stuck. The whole thing is now stuck and I have no patience nor the slightest intention to spend the rest of my days waiting for no one at the call centre to not help me out with this.
• I perceive I have already wasted a thousand hours without accomplishing shit and if that isn’t enough already, I start picturing the girlfriend rebuking/mocking/bullying me for my total ineptitude.
• Fuck me. Fuck Scot’ish Powa and fuck this new home.
• I (in raging anger) click all the tabs close, shut/slap/slamdunk my laptop screen down and (in a less raging mood) leave this impossible task to be attempted by Future Me, good guy.
• Prayed for the day to end right there but apparently it’s only 11:54 am.
• Closed the eyes, summoned a few divinities and tried again.
• No, it’s still 11:54 am.
• Had my stupid sapid lunch and silent-cried inside.

New Home Day One — Ruined Looking forward to Day Two.

Or, am I?

Want More? You sure?