For me it was the most peculiar Independence Day, observed from a metaphorical lawn chair parked on pejorative British soil, dramatized by the fact that the UK and EU are at present disinterested in hosting Americans within their territories. Not only this but the Fourth of July also happened to be the same day that restaurants, pubs, and hair salons reopened in London. Freedom reigned in Britain while it narrowed in America. I was sent a meme:
"Under Kennedy we went to the moon, under Trump we can't even go to Europe."
I traded hotdogs, for goat cheese stuffed mushrooms and salmon from nordic waters, fireworks for candles, and shitty beer for a bottle of champagne. And yes I am feeling smug. Smug and grateful to live in a country where there is health coverage for all and the man in power listens to his scientific advisors, and people don't revolt against face coverings as a political statement. I did kinda miss the hotdogs though.
But it isn't all NHS style glamour on this side of the pond. The rodent has started showing up more and more despite pest control setting up traps and filling in structural gaps. Ratatouille even shows up in the daytime now and barely flinches when I screech. He marches into the kitchen like he owns the place, like "bitch, mind your business, imma just get this cheese outta the fridge. You want?" The pest control dude has been here three times in the last month, to the point even he has lost insight into his professional boundaries with me.
Here is the progression of our texts:
"Good afternoon, contacting you from Pest Control. I have ordered the required stock for the proofing to be carried out. I'm aiming to attend this Friday providing it arrives. Would this be convenient?"
Yes that's fine.
"Have to ask, that map in your front room I was looking at the other day, where did you get it? I really want it"
[No answer.]
2 hours later...
"Would it be wrong to ask how old you are?"
Definitely not appropriate but I'm closer to my forties than twenties.
"Did you think I'm in my 20's then btw?"
I didn't think about it!
"Oh haha well I might be younger then you but I'm closer to turning 40 then I am to turning 20 myself."
Well that's reassuring. (Thinking to myself "you spelled 'then' wrong.")
"I'm glad to be of help. But I'm sure your not that much older then me. When I first met ya I thought you were about my age maybe younger to be honest"
"You* not ya"
Okkkkkaaaaayyyyyyyy.
So anyhoo, I have evidently been traumatized from having been forced into cohabitation with Ratatouille that anytime there is something on the floor like a sock, scrunchie, or birkenstock, an adrenaline bomb goes off in my body. I swear I'm going to have a fucking heart attack one of these days and my flatmate will come home to Ratatouille standing over my dead body, snorting all my Stilton. This is one reason I really need a boyfriend, or a cat. It's a sliding doors kind of moment in a woman's life.
My flatmate Anna sadly decided to move out (and in with her quarantine lover!) which would have been a perfect opportunity for my boyfriend to move in. Only problem is no boyfriend. So I put an advertisement up a couple weeks ago on spareroom.com. I sent Anna the link and asked her to send me a test message to ensure it was working properly. After a few minutes nothing came in. So I asked her to send me another one, which came through immediately.
Me: Anna, I got the "testing testing". Did you send me anything else?
She replied with this screenshot:
Me: Oh, I didn't get the dick pic.
Anna: What, that's crazy.
Me: Yea I guess they censored it.
Anna: Yea but i wrote "dick pic", i didn't send you an actual dick pic.
Not seeing the non dick pic dick pic was the most action I had all winter and spring. It still hasn't come through.
My area is gold and the flat is so cute, under normal circumstances I'd have been spoiled for choice of potential paying residents. Only this time, presumably given the extremely uncertain covid driven circumstances, I had only four people respond to the advert.
The first was a boy who wrote immediately saying how nice the flat was and asked enthusiastically if he could come see it, but then ghosted me when I actually replied. SHOCKER! A man who ghosted as soon as a woman showed interest. Gents, if you are ghosting people in any capacity you are a cliche! Girls talk a lot of shit about people like you. My emphatic life advice to you and your friends would be to aim for some originality by actually responding, even if to say you're not interested. This will take you far in life.
The second was a girl roughly my age who worked in post production for TV. She was absolutely adorable and fun and I knew in an instant we were highly compatible. Only she couldn't afford it due to temporary covid related cuts to her salary. So I offered to subsidize her rent until she got her usual cash flow back. Sadly she was too conscious to accept. She was so good I wanted to pay her to move in. And pay her to be my friend.
The third was another seemingly chic and edgy girl with a nose ring who worked as a curator for a London art gallery. She was my age and could afford it. But she came with a cat which meant she came with a litter box and I just couldn't bring myself to do cat poo or cat hair, even with the Ratatouille situation. I have this hangup where hair or fur that's left the body really makes me queasy.
The fourth was a girl who was working full time and also doing a diploma course in something to do with numbers/cash and ensured me she would be quiet and sensible. She was perky and eager to please, with long blonde hair and heels. Potential for real danger: she was 20 years old and showed up at the viewing with her MOTHER, wearing not only a blazer in desert heat but also a mask and rubber gloves, and stayed this way for the full two hours (TWO HOURS!) they were in my house, even after I had told them I had already been diseased in March. I felt like the hazmat situation might have been symbolic of her having lived a very sheltered life, one that would result in her judging me for doing normal human things like pooping or shooting whipped cream directly into my mouth from the can. But as my current flatmate Anna reminded me, "she'll be good for the rent money and maybe her mum will even buy you a Lamborghini". So, I went for it. Stay posted for updates on that after August 1st.
Other than this, not much else going on where the new highlight of my day is checking the mail. The sense of joy that floods my soul every day I saunter down to the post box is akin to Christmas morning. Only problem is that the disappointment I feel when there is not even a junk letter is excruciating and unbearable. There is really nothing going on. Things got a little exciting for a minute when I noticed a new cafe had opened up downstairs, though my momentary interest was thwarted when I asked if they did matcha lattes and the barista responded that "they did mocha lattes". Like, I appreciate they both start with the letter "M", but they're really not the same.
Welp, it's time to go refresh the news and my weather app for the 293903495034985th time today...
(And happy fourth to my cronies on the other side.)
