Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich that they loose all respect for humanity. That’s how rich I want to be.

Rita Rudner

The Landlord wears a robe. All the time. Every time I’ve seen him - on one of his ’shuffles down to the kitchen from his private lounge - he’s wearing the same worn, blue robe. It’s like deja-vu, except that he occasionally creeps past my room wearing mildly appropriate clothing. He asks if you’re ‘allrigh’ ?’ before slipping out of the door to god-knows-where. It’s quite entertaining actually. I’m starting to get the impression that he does not leave the house unless by some sort of prior appointment. He does not work. He has a massive flat screen T.V in his private lounge. He does not share.

I suspect that the Landlord was an only child.

The second character of note is Eyes. It calls itself Colin, but we do not believe a word of its falsities. It is Eyes. It wears awesome glasses. I’m not sure what Eyes does with its time, but Eyes makes ‘chilli con carne’ and other such oddities for its dinner, leaving the house filled with a mouth-watering inducing smell (to lure innocent sailors/walkers to their death).

I suspect that Eyes is a closet axe-murderer.

Tony lives on the top floor. He is from ‘UpNorth’. He doesn’t sound Scottish, so I ask why not? He says that where he is from is not that far UpNorth. His admission of the fact that he is not from ‘that far UpNorth’ indicates that he is in fact from InTheMiddle and is therefore also a liar. Tony works at the Zoo. He is an animal keeper.

I suspect that Tony has strange fetishes involving killer whales.

Will lives on the top floor. He is very quiet, but does not - like Eyes -give the impression of an axe murderer. As this could all be a very great deception, I have watched his actions carefully. Will washes his hands before greeting people and doesn’t make a sound on the creaking staircase. The staircase always creaks. Will always says ‘allrigh’ ?’ first. Will is moving out in three weeks time.

I suspect that Will has an appointment to become Death’s apprentice.

Nadine lives on the top floor. She has the smallest room in the house. She is kind and helpful. She likes tea and microwave meals. She talks at about one hundred words a minute and sometimes gets stuck on repeat. She is blonde.

I suspect that Nadine forgets to take her medication.

There is a spiral staircase. It runs from the kitchen up though the gap left by the construction of the actual staircase. It has a black bannister. It is the strangest thing in the house, including Eyes.

I suspect that the person who engineered it was on crack.

I also suspect that I am being facetious.

Facetious means ‘cleverly amusing in tone’.

Amusing? Eyes is very amusing.

They are all rather nice. They are all down to earth and lovely. Possibly my suspicions are false.

Except about Eyes.

=)

The imagination is a preview of life’s coming attractions

Albert Einstein

Valentine’s day started as it usually does for me, with all acquaintances split between deliriously happy, morbidly depressed and those who firmly maintain that they think it’s a stupid day (but check their phones every five minutes to see if everyone else agrees). And, as usual, I forgot… He he.

A dull morning, going by the track record of more than a single sunny day in England. Extra freezing (with some frost on top) in the evening, when I was to be found positioned in a bus shelter, where I had been stationed for a good 30 minutes. My attire was… questionable, considering the sub-zero temperatures. Three-quarter pants, open pumps and a jersey, none of which could block out the wind. Nothing could be done about it, I’m afraid, as my brother was late for work and there was a nearby bus shelter. Damn Providence….

After leaving me stranded (much to his own annoyance), Jimmy called in for some back-up. From down under… We call it Kate. Kate is a nutty Australian who came over to work and use the money to travel. She’s on her last leg of work, sanity, and sexual frustration. She was the candidate selected to help me out with viewing a room that I was interested in. This was fantastic in terms of the enjoyment factor, but as she has only been living in Plymouth for a couple of weeks, she had about as much idea where we were going as a badger stuck in a hedge with its head up its arse. After about forty minutes of wandering up and down the town centre and numerous phone calls to the landlord, the man eventually decided to come and pick us up (exactly why he could not have done so in the first place is very unclear to me). We arrived shortly thereafter at the house-share in Lipson road, Plymouth.

The first impression is of an old Victorian, bricky house wedged between two others of vaguely the same sort. Directly outside the little garden gate is a bus stop and across the street is a beautifully landscaped park. I’m impressed, but not as severely excited as when I step over the threshold. Molded ceilings, clean carpets, freshly painted walls. Newly fitted kitchen, cool little tiles on the wall (I do love those). Really REALLY purple bathroom.

Balcony. Not from my room. On the top floor.This is where the tour got interesting; not so much for me as the man giving it. I now proceed into the third person perspective.

“Gorgeous views from up here,” the man comments smugly, thinking that he’s sealed the deal on a new tenant.

“Ah, yeaah. Reeaaly nice. I see the Hoe!” the Australian says.

She’s a bit odd, the man thinks, but very friendly. Okay. Even if she is Australian. Who is he to talk? He spent a year in Greece and actually enjoyed it. Never mind that. The youngster (i.e Me=)) seems impressed in general. She doesn’t look as though she was expecting anything near as nice.

He looks out across the roofs of Plymouth, able to see everything from the Barbican, a central area of restaurants and pubs, to the Hoe. Lights glitter in the large bay, boats floating in military waters or just off of the coast for the night. The man is disappointed that they arrived so late. In the daylight, on a clear day, a view of the ocean is exactly the right thing to speed up a deal. It’s a pity it’s dark. The two girls can’t see much.

The man relates to them what they would see on a clear day, starting to list the various elements of such a desirable location. The younger girl, the South African, starts to laugh. The man feels mortally offended. Is she mocking him. Or worse… Is she laughing at the offer?

Things suddenly don’t look as certain. He begins to list desperately, repeating most of what he has already said.

“And the Hoe, very nearby. Oh, and the Barbican -”

“And a naked man in the window,” the South African says matter-of-factly. The laughter has disappeared to be replaced with polite puzzlement.

The landlord pauses and chokes on his excuse, following with his eyes the path that the girl’s finger has plotted out. Across the road, in the burning glow of a bathroom light, is exactly what she has described - an intensely naked man readying himself for a night out on the town.

“Where, where?” squeals the Australian, hurrying towards the edge of the balcony so quickly that it unnerves the man.

He hurriedly denies the man’s regular appearances, while the Australian comments that the naked man has an amazing body. The landlord thinks that it is turning into a very long night and removes them from the balcony as quickly as possible. It was supposed to be an easy sell. Dammit.

In the end I did take the place. Deposit is paid as well as one month’s rent. Moving in on the 22nd of February to my first ever rented place (even if it is just a room). Looking forward to a bit of order, pub life is crazy. And besides… It has a good view…

=)

Yes. Meavy has a Village idiot - so named by the locals. Friendly.

To profile the poor soul is not altogether difficult. He is about forty years of age, with the expressionless face of a much younger man and an I.Q which would feel privileged to reach the double digits. He is, thankfully, able to function. He is not (less thankfully) one to wallow in his circumstances and ventures out of his humble abode on a daily basis. He likes the pub enormously, Steve (the owner) less so and happens to converse in the third person. He owns a dark red Mitsubishi four-wheel drive which he instructs everyone to look at should it pass.

Disclaimer : I’m not certain if such a vehicle exists.

All in all, it was another fine day in the South of England. Birds sang, the mores (moors) mored and dogs barked. Oh, and Steve told the Village Idiot that he was fat.

This hideous allegation was of course swiftly denied by the accused, whose reputation for consuming cheesy chips (deep fried chunks of potatoes smothered in melted cheddar) is something fearsome. To this Steve replied that V.I had man-boobs. Appalled, V.I responded with much more emotion than should be contained in a single human being, and sobbed uncontrollably. Not even the forty-something barmaid, who pointed out that she too has a fat arse, could cheer the V.I up. Reverse psychology was then employed by using my brother as an example of the opposite extreme - being too thin. By making this sound very undesirable and explaining that real beauty comes from the inside (cheesy chips), the V.I was finally placated. Then he was lectured on the fact that one should always be happy with oneself and not start to sob when the obvious truth is made plain, but rather to embrace it. Surprisingly, he left shortly after this.

It must be added that Steve was not, in fact, trying to be horrible, but attempting to show the V.I that his eating habits need to improve.

Worked in the kitchen today, can make a killer B.L.T and pretty side salad.

=)

A dog called Moo was last night punished for her participation in street-wandering with her mother, Athena. She was sentenced to a night without food and much bad humour on the part of her jailer, one Mrs. My Mom. We are entering into negotiations that Moo might be fed tonight. Any comments will be heplful in assuring a dog called Moo’s freedom. Your support is much appreciated in such times.

Regards,

=)

p.s. To be assured of Moo’s innocence, view the page entitled ‘A dog called Moo’

I have arrived in Plymouth. Meavy, for those wanting to see the dot in the middle of the big green patch on the map. The mores (that’s what it sounds like anyway, I think they’re attempting to say moors…) are pretty. (Mores? I can’t even ask my brother because he’s as pom as the next bloke.) Lots of green, as might have been surmised by the green patch on the map. (More mores, perhaps?)

It was an eventful journey. I booked my bus ticket at 9am and was on the bus by 9:55am. This involved much panic - and I must add much foul language as well - and a rather interesting maneuver on the part of the taxi driver, i.e blasting in front of the bus and stopping in the middle of the road to drop me off at the stop with my bags. Suffice to say I was there before the bus (in the geographical sense of the word if not time). We proceeded from Maidstone to London Victoria on the National Express without incident.

Upon arrival I enjoyed (not very much I might point out) a slightly past-the-expiry-date tuna-salad sandwich and unsweetened tea. I asked them for two sugars. Either this addition was omitted or the assistant was learning-disabled (i.e stupid). After tending to my movement-disabled (i.e spastic) colon at a cost of 20p - to enter the toilets at the coach stop - I went to catch my transfer coach to Plymouth. The old bastard of a coach driver made me lift my twenty-five kilogram bag over my head through a window, commenting that if it didn’t have wheels I would have to carry it. And yet by some strange coincidence that would be rather less like a bag with wheels. WAN-KER! I mean… keen, low-impact sports partaker! (Not the same effect I’m afraid =(. )

After my physical exertion, I entered into my second five-hour stint of bus ride for the day. We had a short stop somewhere that I will forever remember as the place that smells of throw-up. Jimmy’s girlfriend, Rebecca, came and picked me up at the bus stop as Jimmy was working from six onwards. We had a wonderful chat - really nice girl - before meeting Jimmy at the pub. The Royal Oak Inn - so called for the giant, hollowed out oak at the end of the road - is a fantastic little public house on the mores (moors). I was showed to my own room before sharing in some wine with Rebecca down at the bar and supplied a meal of venerable proportions. Jimmy likes to feed me up… I went to bed full, happy and feeling for the very first time in so many days, at home.

Now, for an explanation of the title of this post. A fairly strange garden.

It was a fine morning, all sun and such, and much improved by Steve (the pub owner) arriving a little after I had woken up and belting out ‘I need a hero’ at the top of his voice while preparing for Sunday lunch. I offered to help in the pub for the morning, as gratitude for his feeding me and offering me a place to sleep, and passed the hours until lunch quickly with tasks such as replenishing the stocks in the fridges from the storage and wiping down the tables. General tidying up, really. When lunch was to be served I made my way up to Jimmy’s room and watched a couple of episodes of Charmed (which I had firmly denied wanting to watch the night before). After a while it became rather chilly, so much so that I returned to my bedroom to collect the extra blanket which Jimmy had supplied me with the previous evening. I did not notice that the door opposite Jimmy’s, much like a drawbridge in appearance, was open. Upon my return I did not make the same mistake and was greeted with a rather strange sight as concerns the norm.

A graveyard.

Two steps out and over the little drawbridge are about a hundred graves bathed in the shadow of a church. None of these are, forgive my lack of tact, fresh, and many are so overgrown that the writing upon the stones is no longer legible. Moss grows everywhere and the dullness of the stone seems out of character against the green of the grass on which it rests. And the dashes of colour amongst the dead. Tulips, bright and cheery, grow almost offensively in scattered patches. There is a massive tree which dominates the center of the churchyard, its branches dry finger reaching out to the light that seems just to pass by the walls and fall only on the Royal Oak Inn. It is a most extraordinary sight, which I will be sure to post an image of when I acquire a camera.

I bid thee farewell.

And should obviously avoid literature such as Sweeny Todd, as it is so affecting upon my style of writing. He he…

Black Sheep =)

Log onto mugglenet.com and find ‘the wall of shame’. The HarryPotter based site (shock, shock, horror) is run by an unforgiving individual called Emerson. The posts are hysterical - do yourself a favour.

Seriously.

I think I might add a link to it, its that entertaining.

=)

So yesterday was a bit rushed, what with having to leg it out of the library in order to catch the bus back to Penenden Heath Lodge - my humble abode. (Well, someone else’s humble abode).

I think what really brought it home (not mine) that I am in a different country was the fact that my toothpaste has the word ‘untoward’ written on it. I shit you not. It states that if you experience ‘any untoward problem’ whilst using the product that you should contact your Dentist or Doctor.

It wasn’t the MIIIIILLION kebab shops or the random Wimpy, or the fact that a shop stating that it made ‘good food’ (there’s a suicide note if ever I saw one) was the only empty one on the street, but the word untoward. It’s in Pride and Predujice for crying out loud! (In a bucket… Full of frogs…. Erm…)

On a lighter note, the only friendly person in England (i.e owner of the B&B) comes from Pakistan. This may clear up a number of the confused expressions which have dominated faces since yesterday. I appologise for my lack of clarity in this matter.

The adventure in Maidstone will end shortly- even though there is an awesomely cool prison which dominates most of the town and has billion foot walls. I will be moving closer to Jimbob, which can only add to the humour of the thing - what was funny! (not a question)

pom pom pom-did-e-pom… pom pom.

=)

I’m here. On the island of much mud. How do I feel? Like I’ve got a mentos stuck in my throat, but otherwise ok. The little bed and breakfast I’m staying at is owned by the only friendly person in England, which helps. I’ve been running around all day trying to get things sorted. The job was a bit of a bollucks up… They want commitment of two years, which I can’t give as I’m waiting for my sponsorship (which is applied for whopee!). So now about a hundered different agencies have my C.V and are searching for temporary work.

Still standing… barely.

=)