The Boxer Rebellion

Many people have said over the past few years ‘Och, if EFL just drives you SO insane why not MOVE already?? Gawd!! I’m sick of the whinging. Sheesh!! Fuck off, Babs. No, really.’

What many of you might not have understood, through no fault of my own (cough), is that while this ghettofied hellhole was indeed just that, a ghettofied hellhole–it also had a few advantages. Those advantages being A) semi-cheap rent B) EFL, at the time, seemed to be the only landlord on the island willing to let them keep The Beast, resident Doggie and scourge of the neighbor round the corner’s lawn.

Now for that dog (partially) and semi-cheap rent (more partially) we have tolerated insanity beyond all reasonable measure, as I’m sure you’ll all recall. Such as: being evicted every five minutes, getting phone calls if a cat farts at 8 PM, getting lectured on how to turn the faucets off properly, the magical washing machine that we were no longer allowed to use because it would break the oh-so-delicate pipes. Etc. And best of all, since EFL has no family nearby, nor any friends that she hasn’t alienated, ringing me every five minutes with one of her many medical problems. It has driven me to the brink of insanity and back, let me assure you.

What is one supposed to say to an elderly widow when they’re having a sugar attack?? Or chest pains??

‘Oh sod off. I’ve got goofing off to do!! Fend for yourself!!’

Of course not. Only they of the most hardened heart would be able to say that.

And, for my efforts, I am happy to say EFL has FINALLY allowed me to start using the washing machine again.

I am unhappy to say she is also giving us the boot. This time it’s real.

And she’s done it in a rather sneaky and roundabout sort of way.

A way which I shan’t forget anytime soon.

Actually–before I even get INTO how she gave us the boot let me backtrack.

It was the night before said booting, and she’d called me down because she wasn’t feeling well–something that happened a lot lately. It wasn’t bad enough to go to the hospital–she just wanted a cup of tea. So I made her a cup of tea and she chatted a bit about how her painkillers weren’t working and how nothing ever works and everything stress-wise was driving her nuts. So I told her what I always did–‘Find your zen place, EFL–think about that and just that’

(I realize that’s probably not how the whole zen thing works but hey!! It usually got her to calm down. So fuck off)

She told me how she’s only ever happy at the shore. So I told her to think of the shore and nothing else. She even mentioned how she’d love to live there in a nice little apartment. Love, love, LOVE to live there!!

I walked out yelling ‘Think of the shore!! It’s all about zen, EFL!!’

Me and my Big Fat Frickin’ Mouth.

She found her zen place, alright. At least I assume she did.

I couldn’t ask her the next day.

Because when I went tootled downstairs the next day, she was very, very still.

Very, very cold.

And very, very dead.

I don’t think this zen stuff is all it’s cracked up to be.

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