Domestic drama

Naz has a new girlfriend. This equals nightly squeals of Slavic pleasure and the noise of malcoordinated sexual athletics. I get it in surround sound. By day silence is resumed but squalor continues to well up around me. As I slump into position at my desk my bare feet sink into scatterings of nut clusters trapped in fronds of fitted carpet. Staggering away in horror I topple a four foot high pile of newspapers onto a similar sized mound of pesto smeared crockery. Something must be done. An hour later my fears of mould/rat related diseases have been allayed, and the vital journey from bed to laptop and back again (3ft) appears less of a physical endurance test. (The mental and emotional one is a little more difficult to overcome.)

Then Naz returns from whatever he does all day:
Naz: Spring cleaning eh?
Olga: (through gritted teeth and refusing eye contact) Correct.
Naz: So did you do the kitchen too?
Olga: I don’t work in the kitchen.
Naz: (Trying to sound threatening)You wanna consider washing up some time in the next few days?
Olga: I’ll consider it.

There will be no washing up from me Naz. You donated my soap to the German theatre. Petty I know, but so far I’m winning, and there are less than three weeks to go.

In other news: Professor Worm up to his old tricks: more misogyny with my cornflakes; Lanark Academy so stinking rich that the library canteen writes sign regretfully informing clientele that £100 notes are not accepted; and I have now developed a fully fledged crush on Charlie Brooker after his latest rage involving mobile phones. Fury and wit, such a good combination. He is however the spitting image of a certain (committed to being single) acquaintance and is a confirmed bachelor himself.


Good Night and Good Luck.
Olga Whim signing off.