Dribble Joy
07-06-04, 19:54
I have a Landlord. Many people do.
Mine is [ edited ].
No really, I would call him a cirtain four letter word begining with 'N', but this is hardly the place.
From aforementioned [ edited ] slumlord, I rent a garage bedroom in a shitty house in the worst hole in England (Uxbridge) for £70 a week.
In September I was in another of his houses, No. 68. He moved us to No.51 because apparently he was loosing money on the morgages.. O_o
Yesterday he comes round to get the last rent cheque from me before I move out (thank fuck), and brough some post that had gone to the other house.
One was an old credit card bill, one was from the Uni saying I had missed some classes, but worryingly, one was from the council.
'Dear Mr Wyre.
I have previously written to you regarding the liability order, obtained... blah blah blah blah.... Despite my requests for payment a balance of £1377.30 remains unpaid.
I am now considering passing the liability order(s) to the Council Bailiffs.
This will involve you in considerable extra costs. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.. The bailiffs can also legally take your goods to pay off this debt, blah blah blah....
Please note that if I do not hear from you or recieve full payment within the next fourteen days, I will pass the case the the council bailiffs.
Yours sincerely
Recovery Office.
24th March 2004'
:lol: :confused: :wtf: 8|
It is now well into June, so I was somewhat distressed by this simple peice of paper.
For those who are a tad confused, this basically meant that at any point a group of large, burly men could knock on my door gain entrance and start removing my stuff from my room, legally.
As a student in England, you do not pay council tax, something somewhere has gone wrong.
Letter in hand I get on the bus to where I presume the council office is.
Uxbridge: Where dreams come to die.
No words can describe how much I detest this.. this.. place, this hole, this vile pit of a town.
Opposite the decrepid, old and virtually ruinous shell of a building that is the local nightclub is one of the nicer buildings in the area.
Made out of brick rather than the stained and cracked concrete, it has a little court-yard where the skaters hang about, they aren't to bad, it's the townies and degenerate scum that infest the place that are the real annoyance, people with no hopes of going anywhere, destined to only ever dream of one day becoming junior assistant burger handler in MacDonald's, and allways envying those who reach the dizzy heights of aprentice burger flipper.
I read the (suprisingly clean) area plan and located the tax office in the main building.
Up the steps and I came into a sort of atrium, with a door to the reception.
Above the dor was a sign saying Hillingdon borough council tax office. Just benieth was the word 'welcome' in about 16 different languages.
In true PC gone mad style I could not actually locate the one in English.
Once into the reception area I was hit by a fog.
The majority of people there with babies, few were crying, but thier presence created an almost touchable heady mist of vomit stentch.
I was then given the puzzle of what to actually do here.
People were waiting, but there seemed to be no queue.
There was a machine, no not a dance or sex machine, but a ticket machine.
After some persuation, it gave me a ticket.
Again I was at loss as to what to do.
Then a load and somewhat faked voice came out of the speakers asking for ticket No. whatever to got to reception desk two. All fell into place.
There was a flat screen monitor that showed where you were in the queue and other random stuff.
At the bottom of the screen it said: ' Making a Difference1', no typo of mine, the one was there.
Half the people there had a limp, I swear. Either due to... some injury/disability or because they were so violently fat.
One guy came in (limping) with his ironed jeans pulled up a good 6 inches above his waist with a SPAM t-shirt tucked into it.
Another guy, who dropped his jumper everytime he moved more than a foot, was qutie obviously stoned/drunk/high/all three wandered about untill he was called, he went to the reception desk, got his number put into a queue for someone to deal with his problem, dropped his jumper, went to his seat, dropped his jumper, and left.. and then came back for his jumper.
ne hour after I came in I finally got to talk to a 'human' about the whole 'burly men in my bedroom' problem.
The human, who could speak fortunatly, looked at my forms and then at her 'computer' and wobbled a bit.
Turned out I needed a form from the Uni, so off I went, back through the vomifog, past the scum and got on a bus, got a form, and went back.
Burly men in bedroom disaster averted, bread, milk, cheese, fish and haribo (2 for 1 on starmix :D) procured from Tesocs, scum sneared at, and tea made.
In all a good day in the life of dribble.
Now I have to fit all of today's missed revision time for tomorrow's Fluid Dynamics exam into what is left of the day. 8|
Mine is [ edited ].
No really, I would call him a cirtain four letter word begining with 'N', but this is hardly the place.
From aforementioned [ edited ] slumlord, I rent a garage bedroom in a shitty house in the worst hole in England (Uxbridge) for £70 a week.
In September I was in another of his houses, No. 68. He moved us to No.51 because apparently he was loosing money on the morgages.. O_o
Yesterday he comes round to get the last rent cheque from me before I move out (thank fuck), and brough some post that had gone to the other house.
One was an old credit card bill, one was from the Uni saying I had missed some classes, but worryingly, one was from the council.
'Dear Mr Wyre.
I have previously written to you regarding the liability order, obtained... blah blah blah blah.... Despite my requests for payment a balance of £1377.30 remains unpaid.
I am now considering passing the liability order(s) to the Council Bailiffs.
This will involve you in considerable extra costs. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.. The bailiffs can also legally take your goods to pay off this debt, blah blah blah....
Please note that if I do not hear from you or recieve full payment within the next fourteen days, I will pass the case the the council bailiffs.
Yours sincerely
Recovery Office.
24th March 2004'
:lol: :confused: :wtf: 8|
It is now well into June, so I was somewhat distressed by this simple peice of paper.
For those who are a tad confused, this basically meant that at any point a group of large, burly men could knock on my door gain entrance and start removing my stuff from my room, legally.
As a student in England, you do not pay council tax, something somewhere has gone wrong.
Letter in hand I get on the bus to where I presume the council office is.
Uxbridge: Where dreams come to die.
No words can describe how much I detest this.. this.. place, this hole, this vile pit of a town.
Opposite the decrepid, old and virtually ruinous shell of a building that is the local nightclub is one of the nicer buildings in the area.
Made out of brick rather than the stained and cracked concrete, it has a little court-yard where the skaters hang about, they aren't to bad, it's the townies and degenerate scum that infest the place that are the real annoyance, people with no hopes of going anywhere, destined to only ever dream of one day becoming junior assistant burger handler in MacDonald's, and allways envying those who reach the dizzy heights of aprentice burger flipper.
I read the (suprisingly clean) area plan and located the tax office in the main building.
Up the steps and I came into a sort of atrium, with a door to the reception.
Above the dor was a sign saying Hillingdon borough council tax office. Just benieth was the word 'welcome' in about 16 different languages.
In true PC gone mad style I could not actually locate the one in English.
Once into the reception area I was hit by a fog.
The majority of people there with babies, few were crying, but thier presence created an almost touchable heady mist of vomit stentch.
I was then given the puzzle of what to actually do here.
People were waiting, but there seemed to be no queue.
There was a machine, no not a dance or sex machine, but a ticket machine.
After some persuation, it gave me a ticket.
Again I was at loss as to what to do.
Then a load and somewhat faked voice came out of the speakers asking for ticket No. whatever to got to reception desk two. All fell into place.
There was a flat screen monitor that showed where you were in the queue and other random stuff.
At the bottom of the screen it said: ' Making a Difference1', no typo of mine, the one was there.
Half the people there had a limp, I swear. Either due to... some injury/disability or because they were so violently fat.
One guy came in (limping) with his ironed jeans pulled up a good 6 inches above his waist with a SPAM t-shirt tucked into it.
Another guy, who dropped his jumper everytime he moved more than a foot, was qutie obviously stoned/drunk/high/all three wandered about untill he was called, he went to the reception desk, got his number put into a queue for someone to deal with his problem, dropped his jumper, went to his seat, dropped his jumper, and left.. and then came back for his jumper.
ne hour after I came in I finally got to talk to a 'human' about the whole 'burly men in my bedroom' problem.
The human, who could speak fortunatly, looked at my forms and then at her 'computer' and wobbled a bit.
Turned out I needed a form from the Uni, so off I went, back through the vomifog, past the scum and got on a bus, got a form, and went back.
Burly men in bedroom disaster averted, bread, milk, cheese, fish and haribo (2 for 1 on starmix :D) procured from Tesocs, scum sneared at, and tea made.
In all a good day in the life of dribble.
Now I have to fit all of today's missed revision time for tomorrow's Fluid Dynamics exam into what is left of the day. 8|