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.