doing the hot water dance

Did anybody hear my RAGE last week? The hotel bathroom had no bath. No bath, no little shampoos and lotions for me to steal, and no free biscuits. Seriously. I don't know how that can even class as a hotel. Also, the floor was laminate. If I want laminate floors, I can go kick my tenants out and walk around on the Topps Tiles' Special that is my Birmingham flat. In a hotel, though, I want to walk barefoot on carpet and steal shampoo and have a bath.  There was definite rage.

Anyway. While I was away, the Evil Landlord got another boiler engineer around and they bodged something together, breaking our no-heat stalemate at just under three weeks.  So I had a bath when I came home, and it was Good.  The boiler hasn't broken again - yet - so I'm doing an unholy amount of laundry this week, just in case. You're not that interested in my laundry dilemmas, though, right? But this is the writing life; the laundry, the cups of tea, the random bouts of tidying-up. If I stopped with the laundry, I'd have to dissertate. Instead, I've got the World Cup (Go, South Korea and Greece! And Mexico, my non-sweepstake favourites. Fantastic lads, the lot of them.) and Wimbledon. I heart Wimbledon, and I especially heart its reigning champ, Roger Federer. I can't get my head around the fact that he's younger than me. He looks so mature and steady. I bet his appliances aren't bodged together.