Today should have been the final piece of the puzzle regarding the new place... getting a new cooker and washing machine installed. And, to be honest, that did happen. Useless flatmate (I'd better start giving him a name, so he'll be UF from now on) didn't stay around with the workmen though and I arrived home to find a broken lock. I found it by trying to get into the apartment and failing miserably. MfW was not much help. His first port of call was to try and beat down the door before calling me. Only then did he realise that he could have called the building manager or, preferably, our estate agent's (i.e. managing agent) out of hours mobile number. They suggested a locksmith and so we called one. Fifty quid later and we're in the apartment, the lock has been repaired (and is in better condition than it was this morning, thanks to the locksmith) and it's up to me to go to them and ask for the money back. Now that the stress is leaking out of me, I'm incredibly tired and I'll definitely sleep well tonight, but today has just highlighted how useless my housemates are at dealing with stuff.
What I need is a fuck, a cigarette and a beer... in precisely that order.
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