We've had our phone cut off. I suspect this is because the fuckwit who's just moved in next door thinks he's in Flat 1, not Flat 2. We're in Flat 1 and the little fucker next door needs to learn his place. We also suddenly seem to be receiving his Council Tax bills, and Cthulhu alone knows what else is fucking going on.
I've fixed the phone thing, mostly during an hour-long support call today, the majority of which consisted of listening to a 45-second excerpt from Eine Kleine Nachtmusik over and over again through a 3kHz line. I did at least get to instruct BT to cut off his phone connection, and if possible, to send a couple of guys round to beat him about the head and neck with a rubber hose. Dear Reader, it pains me to report that they laughed at this perfectly reasonable request. I shall just have to get the Council Tax people to do that bit instead: they have a whole department for that sort of thing.
The most irritating thing about the whole debacle is that the erroneous flat number is 2, not 6, which means that I can't do any of my
Who is Number One spiel.
And I've just heard that the internet connection has now dropped off. There will be violence when I get home.
I know where you live, you bastard! Better than you do, it would seem.
Fortunately, due to the fact that this weekend is going to be absolutely unbearable, I have already laid in copious stocks of booze.