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The flat we live in at the moment is part of my late grandfather's estate. Three years ago, my grandmother asked me if I'd like to live there. She wasn't going to charge me full rent, and I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted to. Being in a pretty well-to-do (aka snooty) suburb, on a beuatiful street, close to Norwood Parade, who was I to say no?
Fast forward three years. My uncle has taken over the responsibility of looking after it. Now he wants to put it back into the hands of a real estate agent. Thing is, he didn't bother to ring us and just let us know. No, he ignored the list of problems we need fixed (I mean, how dare we ask for the dodgy hot water service to be looked at?). The agent came round last night, poked hs nose in all the rooms, told us it wasn't an inspection and then proceeded to tell us how we should look after the place. He also told us the rent would be going up by 30 - 40%.
Long story short, we're moving. I'm not going to be ambushed by my own fucking family. Yes I know I get cheap rent. But I look after the place, and don't complain about all the things I could. I don't ask for them to fix everything that I probabply should be asking about. They're family. Shows you how important the blood connection is then, doesn't it?
(By the way, the song I'm listening to isn't necessarily relevant. It's just fast, loud and helps me get the frustrations out. I love my metal.)
