armyofsnails: (fear me)
This morning the door to Mr B's room came off its hinges.

As he was struggling to shove the door back into its place I stood there laughing like an idiot, but
he!
was!!
NOT!!!
AMUSED!!!

It's official: this house is at war with us. I'm expecting the hallway floor to rip apart and reveal the abyss below, with the dryad man ascending out of it as the Alternative Universe's Overlord, armed with a toilet seat, his skin made entirely of earth and twigs.

On an entirely unrelated note, have a link my friend [livejournal.com profile] ca_yuga has sent me.

(In case you ever wanted to beat someone's head with moss...)
armyofsnails: (Default)
The dryad man has been to replace the cistern today. As a result, the toilet seat is broken and the downpipe from the new cistern comes off every time you flush it, chucking a fountain of water in your face. Additionally, there is an inexplicable wet spot in the hallway, at least 1.5 metres away from the toilet door, and two out of three spare toilet rolls have disappeared. A note scribbled on the back of an envelope reads:

"Hi

New loo working. I broke the toilet seat will order a new one & let you know when its ready to be fixed

Regards

MB"


HAHAHAA

Oh, and Mr B forgot to hide my obscene fridge magnets before the landlord's visit, so now I'm officially untouchable.
armyofsnails: (mosshood)
Today while Mr B and I were both at work the landlord visited the house to look at the EXISTENTIAL TOILET CISTERN again.

Previously I've encountered the landlord's long haired, MOJO reading, geriatric 1960s hippy plumber, head to toe in denim and with wrists covered in friendship bracelets. This time however the landlord was supposed to do the works himself.

So, having come back from work tonight, I wander into the loo to discover that the floor and my associated reading material (mainly old copies of the Architect's Journal, if you must know) are covered in twigs and dead tree leaves. Upon further inspection, there is a trail of little twigs and fragments of dry autumn leaves leading from the front door to the bog.

The cistern is working though which is the important thing.




So apparently my landlord is a dryad. That's quite all right. Nothing in Crouch End surprises me these days.

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