Tag Archives: apartment

Apartment Hunting

I am afraid my post on apartment hunting in Hanoi isn’t going to be dreadfully informative. Perhaps more illustrative of just how damned easy it can be to find decent housing in this city.

Like when job hunting, Facebook groups are the place to be when looking for new digs. But not always in the groups you would think. There are a handful of groups dedicated to housing, but posts for apartments and houseshares crop up all over the various groups dedicated to Hanoi.

Long before we moved to Vietnam, Dan and I had been watching the groups and various posts about apartments. We had a good idea of where we wanted to be, what we wanted to spend, and what we thought that much money should get us.

In Hanoi, foreigners tend to gather in just a few districts, with Tây Hồ and Ba Đình having the highest concentration of them. You can imagine then that an area like Tây Hồ also has the highest concentration of westernised shops and facilities. It also means that rents are often a little higher in these areas, but then again, the housing is also a little more modern.

Dan and I decided that we would focus mostly on Tây Hồ, not because we love other foreigners, but because we thought it would be nice to have a newer place and liked the idea of being close to the lake, even if it isn’t the kind of lake you would want to swim in (although I have seen some brave, brave souls swimming and fishing in it).

Our next consideration was price. We settled on an amount of $500(usd) a month. Which buys more than you would think in Hanoi. What you get for that amount varies, from bachelor-style places to two-bedroom flats, from everything included (except electricity, which is rarely if ever included) to little included, from fully kitted to sparsely furnished.

For our $500, we wanted at least one bedroom, everything included (except electricity, but a cleaner needed to be part of the deal), a balcony, and a washing machine in the apartment. Other than that, we were pretty open. So I began the search.

The first thing I did was post in a group on Facebook which is just for women in Hanoi.


I also had joined a ‘ladies only’ group in Seoul, and let me tell you, that group and the one for Hanoi are by far the most supportive and helpful groups on Facebook.


I asked the group if they had the contact details of an agent that they’d used and trusted, so I wasn’t just going with randos that were posting apartments on Facebook. The group responded with a good handful of names and numbers, and a couple of people even sent private messages. One of these girls asked where I was looking and my budget. When I told her, she said there was a flat going in her building for that price, would I be interested. She said the building was all foreigners, and the landlord was a great guy. I said I was interested.

Long story short, Dan and I came and looked at the apartment. It was everything we wanted so we gave Dave – the Irish landlord who owns the building along with his wife – a mini hold-deposit (he said $100 would do, we had $65 on us, he accepted it) and asked when we could move in. That was a Monday. We moved in on the Saturday.

We are very happy with the flat, and still surprised at how painless it was to find a place with everything we wanted for a good price. We are even pleased that we are on the quiet side of the lake (more to the north west, the action is more around the east) and it isn’t too noisy down our little alley.

I suppose if I was to give any advice it would be this – reach out to people that are already here. Have an idea before hand your budget and what you expect and want for that money. It is possible to negotiate down a price here as well, and you’ll probably get a better deal (like in so many places in the world) if you deal directly through the landlord and not through an agent.

One last thing – prepare to pay a month’s deposit and at least one month’s rent (some places ask for two or three months in advance). Although we wouldn’t have agreed to three months in advance, there were lots of ads requesting it. Just a head’s up.


I’ve now been in Korea for four weeks, and I thought it was about time I got around to describing my flat for you.


I live in a three story building on the ground floor. I was really nervous when the director brought me “home” for the first time, as you never really know what you are going to get in Korea when you are a teacher. Most of the flats aren’t very big, but they range in quality from super-ghetto to pretty decent and new.

I like that my building is close to everything, that there are digital locks (no keys to lose when you are out and about) and that the flat was on the ground floor. So far so good.

Then she opened the door.


Even the previous teacher’s toothbrush was still up in here.

Can’t say I was too pleased with what I was seeing. It was filthy. Not just all the stuff left behind (the previous teacher left in a hurry, so a lot of her stuff was left behind), but it wasn’t clean. At all.

There were immediately obvious things, like the bedding hadn’t been washed, but there were surprises too. Like the food in the fridge that had begun growing food of its own. Or the mould under the toilet seat. Or the floors that were so marked up and dirty that it’s taken me around 12 hours to get them clean (and the flat is tiny).

So the first things I notice about my new home is that it is filthy and the windows suck balls. Worse, the director tries to tell me that they “didn’t have time to clean”. Even though the flat had been empty for a couple of weeks. Even though the school has never had a flat cleaned ever. Yarg.

But now that I have the place cleaned up and cleaned out, I’m really quite happy with my new digs. The only bad thing really is the windows, and that is a shame. But I am happy that:

a. I have cool digital locks
b. I have a brand-new washing machine
c. The washing machine isn’t in the bathroom
d. The furnishings are quite new and modern
e. There’s no mould on the walls (a major problem here)
f. Although there is the occasional weird funk from the drains, it could be a bajillion times worse
g. It’s super close to everything
h. It’s on the ground floor

So I’m happy with it overall. It’s not big, but it’ll be easier to keep clean that way, right? Here’s some shots of it after I have it all tidied up and clean. If you have any questions about living in a flat in Korea, just drop it in the comments.



Yes. The entire bathroom is the shower. It’s actually kinda useful.


Living Situation Update

One of the effects of not knowing how long you’ll be in the country is not knowing how long you should keep your flat.

So last month I gave my notice on my flat on Brick Lane. I was here just over a year and although the flat had some issues (not the best landlords) I really loved living here. Brick Lane might have been noisy, but it was vibrant and central and interesting.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do once I was past my move-out date (which is this Friday) because I didn’t know (and still don’t know) how long I would be here. 

Happily, my lovely friends Rich and Nell offered their spare room for the weekend, which was the first worry covered. It means so much that my first few nights homeless will be in the home of the loveliest couple in London.

I wasn’t too sure what I was going to do past this weekend though. I have a weekend to spend in Brighton with the fabulous Craig and Kevin, and couch offers from Kristi and Eva… but I have been growing increasingly concerned that I’ll be here long enough still that I could become a bother. Not having my passport or knowing when I’ll get it back is such a joy.

So, with great relief, I’ve found a room to sublet in Hackney for just under a month. The timing is perfect; they were looking for someone to take the room starting the day after I’m done at Rich and Nell’s place and until just about mid-October. 

Total strangers. But the place was tidy and there was lots of art on the walls. It had a homey feel and even though there are usually three boys living there, it didn’t smell like boy. And they have a super friend cat that I’m going to squish for a month.

Hopefully it will all work out. I’ve had issues with flatmates in East London before: I haven’t seen the Denizens of Aurghville for years now but I’m still emotionally scarred. If nothing else, I’ll end up with more stories and loads of kitty pictures for Instagram.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: Ah, Shit.

I try to see the positive in every situation. Once again; stop fucking laughing. I do! So even though things here in Aurghville haven’t been necessarily pleasant (to say the very least), I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m getting out of the situation. I find that even the shittiest things that happen in life happen for a reason. Perhaps it is just to give you clarification on how no matter how shite life can get, it can get worse. Perhaps there’s some sort of lesson you can learn (other than how life is a pile of poop sometimes).

Wait a second… what’s with all the fecal talk here? Why is all this poop just slipping (ew) into my writing? Has something happened lately in the septic tank that is my flat that I’m just warming up to?

Oh yah. Something has. And the Denizens of Aurghville sink to a new low! Well done, my turdy little flatmates!

But let me finish warming you up for this. And for me… can’t write stories with cold fingers and a slow mind. I was talking about finding the silver lining in this noxious cloud of a living situation. What have I learned from being here?

Certainly not patience. And not tolerance. I already knew how much I hated people that don’t show respect for other people’s space. I already thought that other people weren’t as clean as I am. What could it be?

I’ve been worried that I’m just finding out that I can’t live with other people. London is far too expensive to live on one’s own. And one day I may want to do the whole matrimony and motherhood thing which I understand involves living with other people


Settle, moms. I said “one day” and “may” which is not the same as making a plan. So don’t start picking out baby clothes or anything.


So I would hate to find out that I’m now incapable of living with others. I don’t think that is it though. I will do my best, however, to never ever live with strangers again. That may be the lesson I needed to learn. Don’t jump into things that actually matter… like committing to living with idiotic people you will have to share a bathroom with.

Sigh. It is always the bathroom with these people.

I promise I’ll tell you guys some of the other stuff I tolerate some day: the inside of the microwave is a story worthy of a science publication focused on exploring new territory for emerging ecosystems. ‘Cause there seems to be some freaky-ass shit growing in there.

Or I don’t think I’ve mentioned that there is a moth problem in my room. Oh yah, moths. A moth infestation is all kinds of awesome. There are moth carcasses all over the walls because they don’t squish cleanly. And even if I wipe the wall after I moider them, there is still some sort of moth remnant on the wall to mark the fallen. Moths. Sick.

But once again I’d like to focus on the bathroom. Because we’ve hit a new low. Which is pretty amazing… you know. Considering who we are dealing with.


First, I need to tell you guys that I’m not the only one withholding loo roll these days. The couple that lives here are also keeping paper in their room because they are sick of buying it all the time. As far I can tell, it’s been Captain Tuberculosis’ turn to buy the toilet paper since time immortal. And I don’t think she’s actually bought any; the size of the toilet rolls that do show up occasionally are industrial. I think the little cretin is stealing it from work once in awhile. Class act, that one.

Yesterday when I first got home I noticed there was no TP when I went in to pee, which no longer concerns me because I’m using my own.


I just realised a rather terrible side effect of me relaying the Chronicles: Y’all are hearing WAY too much about my toilet habits.


Before bed I went back in to pee one last time (no midnight tinkle trips for me!) and was stunned by what I think I saw.

I say “think” because once again, I didn’t do any close examinations or anything. And I was grossed out enough by this one (yah, after everything else… I’ve even seen another wee puddle that may have been spit again – gahhh!!) that I couldn’t even react.

There was still no TP in the toilet.

But there was poop once again left in the toilet because some stupid son of a bitch doesn’t understand how the fuck the toilet brush works.

Sorry. Sorry! The cursing. But I’m baffled about this. Look: poop happens. It happens to everyone (except me… I perform an act of immaculate excretion – true story). Everyone poops. And sometimes nasty things happen when people poop (I assume, as previously mentioned I personally have no first-hand experience). Toilets clog. Poop doesn’t feel like getting flushed. Poop is sometimes ill-timed. Many, many things can go wrong socially when it comes to pinching a loaf. But the thing is… the thing I don’t understand about these people… is that I believe most people try to cover up their poop tracks a little bit. So if you stink up the toilet, you strike a match. If you clog the toilet, you plunge. If you get poop stuck up all the side of the toilet, you swipe a brush through that mo-fo.


Not my flatmates. It’s like they are proud of their sticky, stinky accomplishment and want the world to know what they’ve done. There doesn’t seem to be any other reason for leaving it like that. Because the brush is right. beside. the. fucking. toilet.

Deep breath. Okay, so you get the point. Someone pooped.

Remember I said there was no toilet paper earlier in the evening? There was still no toilet paper later that night, post poop.

That raises some interesting questions right there. Because unless there is some sort of secret, hidden bidet… well, there was no toilet paper. Now, I don’t poop, but I understand you need to clean up somehow when you do. How’d they wipe? Or are they not sure of the entire pooping process? They don’t know you can brush the inside of the toilet clean; perhaps they don’t know that you don’t have to walk around with shit stuck to your ass, either. Who knows? We aren’t dealing with the world’s brightest crayons in the box here.

Now, I can imagine what you are thinking: Okay, the ponderance of whether or not they wiped their ass is pretty gross… but not as gross as Capt. Tuberculosis trying to hock a loogie up from somewhere in the vicinity of her feet, the cup of moldy toothbrushes or the spit on the floor. And you are right. This isn’t number one on the list. Yet. But I’m not done the story. Lord help me, I’m not done the story.

It wasn’t the poop in the toilet or the lack of TP that was the low point, guys. No, no. No no no no no. Oh God, no.

It was what was on the wall.

Or what I think was on the wall. Because I hope it wasn’t what it looked like. Please, no. No no no no no. Oh God, no.

Let me outline what I think happened. I think one of the wee dumb-dumbs (I’m voting for Capt. TB, that seems most likely to me) sat and pooped without looking to see if we had toilet paper. Then they didn’t know what to do when they realised that there wasn’t any TP (and judging by the state of the toilet it was a big, sticky ‘un). Now, this is where I hope I’m wrong, but I can’t figure out how else one of those idiots managed to get shit on the wall.

I think whoever it was… they tried wiping with their own hand. And as they stood up they lost their balance a wee bit and touched the wall – maybe with the palm of their hand – as they stood up. And managed to get some poop on the wall before going to (I freaking hope) wash their hand.

Poop. On the wall. Why is that infinitely more disturbing than (potentially) poop beside a puddle of (suspected) spit on the floor?

I would have left it there, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t go in the bathroom and not stare at it. I couldn’t use the toilet and risk rubbing my shoulder against that wall (the toilet is really close to the wall). So that was one win for Team Denizen: I washed the poop. Off the wall.

Oh yah. I’ve definitely learned not to live with strangers anymore. Strangers = danger. It was true when I was four. It is true now. They can’t be trusted.

Poop. On the wall. I hate these fucking people.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: Citizen Soup and other Stories

So, basically it’s come to this: I have to move. It is either a: move or b: bring about Armageddon. And because I haven’t seen Transformers 2 yet, I don’t want the world to end just now. So, moving it is.

This begins less like a chronicle and more of an update on previous stories. I can’t even bring myself to take more pictures; it is impossible to photograph my simmering anger and rising bile. And truly nothing will outdo the photo of the moldy toothbrushes. Not even the moldy body scrubber. Which is gross… but I should have maybe started there and worked up to the toothbrushes. Move up the grossometer instead of all over it.

Something did happen yesterday that pushed me to a new level. I left a note. Oh yes, a note. Not quite a passive-aggressive note (yet) but I’m getting there. But first: the updates.

The Toilet Paper

I finally did break down and just buy my own loo roll. It is still aggravating that I have to cart TP from my room to the bathroom every time I have to tinkle, but it is less annoying than buying 40 rolls of paper every week. And here’s what I’ve learned: the toilet paper over-usage was definitely not me. I bought 4 rolls in the first week of May. I’m not even a third of the way through the third roll. So from March to May I bought over thirty rolls. From May to June I’ve used three. My math isn’t as good as it used to be but I know this: that don’t add up, yo.

The Pube Trail

There hasn’t been a repeat of the trail but there has been another grouping of mystery hair that looked suspiciously like a pube pile on the bathroom windowsill. Nice.

The Moldy, Evil, Horrid Toothbrushes

There are fewer toothbrushes (two of the citizens appear to be holidaying somewhere) and the water has been dumped out of the jar. But get this – they dumped the water but didn’t actually clean the jar. So it is still crusty and moldy. And there are still toothbrushes in it. GAAA!!

So, there you are, updated. But there have been new bathroom sorrows…

Unstealthy Thievery

I’ve had to take all my shower stuff out of there and am (like all my food and toilet paper) keeping it in my room because someone has started using it. Which I don’t support.

I know this because I’m vaguely OCD about certain things. I always close the lids on stuff. I always stand things up. I always (I probably shouldn’t confess this part) keep the shampoo to the left of the conditioner* because I use the shampoo first. It isn’t that I like to be that organised, I’m just that lazy. Keeping the shampoo and conditioner like that means I don’t have to waste my brain thinking about which bottle to grab first in the morning.

Anyway… if someone moves my stuff, I know about it. And whichever turd used my shampoo was too dumb to even TRY and be sly about it. They left the shampoo laying down on my shelf, open and dripping onto the shelf below it. Well done, Turbo. So I gave in and put everything into a container and cart it back and forth every morning.

Citizen Soup

Last night I went in the bathroom to use the toilet and there was about 3 inches of standing water in the tub. Ace. I can’t believe someone took a bath in there. I cleaned it about two weeks ago and had to use a sandblaster (or a brush, whatevs) to get the bloody grime off. Not just soap scum, not just lime build up, but grime. It was grayish and… well, and just wrong. I couldn’t leave it and my feet touch that so I cleaned.

And before you think I was being squeamish: I wear flipflops all summer in London. In the dirty east end of London. On the way back from a gig with Stefanie I stepped in a puddle that was mostly cigarette-butt soup (and God knows what else) and shrugged it off. I’m not squeamish about getting my feet dirty – the tub was actually that gross. So I cleaned it.

Anyway, back to the bathwater remains. Now, when you live with a bunch of pigs (What is a bunch of pigs called? They aren’t a herd, are they?) you don’t want to stick your hand in the water that one of them has been steeping in to get the plug out. I shook my head, shuddered, and went back into my room where I’m sure I was busy doing something cool**.

I went back in around 11:30 for my bedtime pee (I sleep badly and try to avoid anything that could wake me up, including my bladder) and the water was still in the tub. I had the feeling that whichever delayed citizen had decided to soak in that gleep was going to just leave the water in there all night. Which would mean that it would still be there in the morning when I went to shower. Which would mean that I would either have to stick my hand in there to get the plug out or risk standing in citizen soup whilst trying to shower. Sick.

So I did the only thing I could when I don’t want to actually interact with someone: I left a note. I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t friendly. I didn’t address it (even though I knew who it mostly likely was… as do you). I just said that if the water was still there the next day, I would be very unhappy.

I didn’t say that “unhappy” was my own, personal euphemism for “full of murderous rage and likely to slaughter you in your sleep”. Besides, I didn’t have enough room on the post-it note.

Ten minutes later, while lying in “bed” (read: sofa-bed-thing-from-Ikea) I heard one of the citizens trying to bail water out of the tub. I put my earplugs in and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

The next morning I went into the bathroom and read the note the citizen had left. They couldn’t get the plug out normally and eventually had to use a knife to pry it out. And that they were going to “call someone” to come and look at it. Wha? As I was standing there, reading the note, she came into the bathroom and explained further the difficulty they had draining the bathwater.

Apparently, it was her mom that had the bath. Ew. And, excuse me? It just goes to show that we are products of our parents. My moms wouldn’t even walk in the bathroom door if she was bursting – I’m fairly certain she would hold it and pee somewhere else. But the little cretin’s mother was fine sitting in our bathtub of grime and evil. EW EW EW. At least now I understand where her retardation comes from a little more. Apparently it is genetic.

And as for “calling someone”… the citizen told me that she would get someone to look at the plug because it obviously wasn’t working properly. I suggested that she goes out and buys a rubber replacement plug for 59p and save some hassle. The look on her face was priceless; she hadn’t even considered that an option.

So, that’s the bathroom updated. That’s my living situation in a nutshell. Although at this point, I would rather live in a nutshell. At the bottom of a garbage can. With nine mice and some maggots. Because I can’t stand this much more. And I’ve only told you about the bathroom… I’ve not mentioned (potentially yet) the kitchen. Or the hallway. Or the garden. Or the garbage. Or how some dipshit constantly leaves their key in the lock so you can’t use it to get in the house and have to knock instead.

Hopefully it is all only for a few more weeks. Once I get a new job I’ll have a much better idea of where I will want to live. And then I can start the process of de-turding myself from this situation. The only con to this that I foresee is what will I blog about if I don’t live with the world’s most inconsiderate flatmates?

*Remember when everyone called conditioner “cream rinse”? Or was that just my moms?
**Probably not. Sims 3 came out last week and I waste all my time playing that lately. Not. cool.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: Dental "Hygiene"

You know how they have “sensitive” toothpaste? I need that. Not because my teeth hurt, but because I’m squeamish. I have an overactive imagination and seeing something gross while I’m brushing my teeth makes me gag a little. Heck, I can just think of something gross (like someone else’s hair in my toothbrush – EW) and it makes me gag a little.

In order to avoid feeling Harfy Bunger while brushing my teeth, every so often I just give into my own brain and brush with my eyes closed so nothing can trigger that gag reflex. Of course, I still have to think of pleasant things or this trick doesn’t work either… but at least nothing can accidently gross me out if I have my eyes closed.

Here in the House o’ Aurghness, I close them every time I brush.

Gagtastic Harf-Inducer #1: The Crusty Tube of Evilness and Wrong

Really? Really people? The only way this could be worse is if the cap had been left off and rolled behind the toilet. And the only reason it hasn’t done that is because the poor thing can’t escape. If I was that cap, I’d sure as hell be trying to escape. I can’t help but imagine one of the citizens of Aurghville squeezing some pound shop toothpaste that was packaged in Taiwan and is actually made of ground-up crickets and discontinued mint-flavouring that was snuck in through customs past that crusty sickness and onto their brush before putting it in their mouth. Gross.

Gag level: 4/10
Gagtastic Harf-Inducer #2: The Multiple Brushes of Sickness and Disease

First, I would like to point out that NONE of these are mine. I keep mine in my room. I keep it safe. It is hidden away from the other citizens, whom I would definitely NOT trust with something as intimate as my toothbrush. I put that in my mouth, for crying out loud. Other than me, there are three “people” in Aurghville. So WHY THE FUCK are there eight toothbrushes in the bathroom, citizens? WHY WHY WHY?

This hurts me in so many ways:

1. Why are there so many brushes?
2. How could you store them in such a way that the bristles touch each other?
3. How do you know which one is yours?
4. See that yellow one? Would you put anything that colour in your mouth?
5. Why are there so many freaking brushes already?

But it gets worse… oh, so much worse. I didn’t think the grossest possible thing in a bathroom so full of grossest possible things could be so gross. And it is so gross. So, so gross. In fact, so gross that I was worried that it wouldn’t show up in the picture above so I took a close-up.

click the pic to enlarge… if you dare


Gag level: 16.35/10
Gagtastic Harf-Inducer #3: The Aftermath

Your teeth are in your mouth. One would think that is where the toothpaste would also go. Now, I get that you have to spit it out at some point. But I normally spit it out into the sink, don’t you?

Gag level: 3/10 (got a bonus point for me thinking about stepping in it in my *shudder* bare feet)
Anger level: 11/10 (What the fuck are you, citizen? 6 years old?)

I think I’m just going to start brushing my teeth at work. Seriously.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: Spreading the Plague

When I was 22(ish) I lived in a house with four 22(ish) year old boys. Disgusting, dirty, vile, inconsiderate 22(ish) boys. One of them played volleyball. He would come home from practice, take all his stinking, sweaty clothes off in the dining room and put them on the dining room table, then go upstairs to have his shower. Our fridge was where vegetables went to die. Another flatmate lost his hedgehog (named Peaches) for two weeks. A rodent. Loose in the house. I kept my food under my bed so those a-holes wouldn’t eat it and then put the empty containers back in the cupboard as was their habit.

Those boys could take lessons from my current flatmate. They got nothing on her.

Most of the stories I’m telling (with pictorial evidence, about which I know you are so stoked) revolve around her. I’ve never seen anyone so messy and inconsiderate (or go through so much toilet paper and not replace it) in my life. It is unbelievable. She seems nice enough, but good gravy I wouldn’t want to live with her.

Except I currently live with her.

She has a habit that I want to share because I need the sympathy on this one. I need you to tell me I’m not being unreasonable. I want to know that the fact that I haven’t actually maimed her yet in some way is testament to how patient I am actually being about this entire situation.

It is often noisy in our house. One of the flatmates plays alto sax (but well, so I actually dig that). People come and go at all hours and my room is at the bottom of the stairs.


The inconsiderate flatmate, who is only slightly taller than one of the oompa-loompas and doesn’t weight but a buck oh five (soaking wet), manages to sound like Andre the freakin’ Giant coming down the stairs. Worse? She knows it. She’s mentioned to me about how loud the sound of her crashing down the stairs must be. And. she. keeps. doing. it. anyway.


Our flat faces Hoxton Street so there is noise from out there too. To say the least, I often wear my headphones in my room when I’m watching movies or listening to tunes. And I have no real choice but to put in earplugs at night or there isn’t a hope of getting to sleep or staying there.

For all those audio annoyances, there is really only one noise in this house I can’t handle. I can hear it over my music. I hear it even with my earplugs in. It haunts my dreams and I hate it SO MUCH that every time I hear it, I actually mutter “oh for fuck sake!” to myself and flip my flatmate the bird through my closed door.

I know. I know! You must be DYING to find out what sound could possibly be making me insane. Over and above everything else that makes me want to harm small fluffy things that I put up with in this freaking flat, what in Aurghville could possibly be driving me to the very edge of the sliver that’s left of my sanity?

She continuously – and I mean continuously – is horking up snot.

You know that sound. The sound of someone scraping up a huge wet smack of snot from (apparently, judging from the sound) all the way down by their feet to swirl around in their mouth before projecting their diseased little present somewhere.

Multiple times, every day, I hear this little witch make this noise. If she keeps it up, she’s going to have to hope she’s dying of TB (which is exactly what it fucking sounds like) because I’m going to kill her anyway for making that fucking noise if she doesn’t hurry up and die from whatever phlegm-riddled lung disease she has.Aurgh! Every time she does it, my skin crawls and I want to punch things. I have to hope she doesn’t ever do it while I’m eating because it makes me gag. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

But wait! There’s more!

What could be worse than the sound? That retch-inducing hateful sound? Well… I hear her doing the big hork-o-rama quite often in the bathroom. And I’m assuming (hoping?) that she’s spitting that shit out. Because the idea that she’s pulling that up and swallowing it again is more than I can stand.

Or at least, I would have hoped that she was spitting it out before. But you know what? After hearing her bring up a good ‘un… I don’t hear the sound of it’s disposal.

Where’s that loogie going?

No toilet flush. No running water. So that means if she’s spitting it in the sink, she’s not rinsing the sink. Or she’s just letting ‘er float around in the toilet, waiting for me to have to go in there and look at it.

Well, I found out where one of them went tonight. And this makes me sick, boys and girls. I’ve definitely had enough with this one and I’m not even out of fucking stories about Aurghville.

To be fair, I’m not 100% sure that the puddle pictured is actually spit. It isn’t as though I took it down to the lab and had it analysed. But what does it look like to you? And I need to point out that those tiles are my bathroom floor. The bathroom in my house. The bathroom that I (thank goodness) always put my flip-flops on to go into. The general bathroom ick on the floor was bad enough. But did she have to just go ahead and drop a sample of plague on the floor?

Now, the only thing potentially worse than that pool of sickness is that brown… thing… beside it. What the freakshow is that? Please, please, please… tell me it isn’t what it looks like. Please. Because I don’t think wearing flip-flops will be enough to protect me if that little cretin has actually dropped a turd on the floor beside her pool of spit. Seriously. I’m going to need one of those decontamination foot baths they use in areas where they suspect mad cow disease.

I can’t take much more of this. Here’s hoping that I find work soon so I can find a new place to live as soon as humanly possible. Because if I don’t kill the other citizens of Aurghville for their disgusting habits, I’m going to die of the diseased grossness that they seem hell-bent on leaving around.

PS: She made that loogielicious noise TWICE while I was typing up this post. And I type fucking fast. Would someone please take me out into a field and put a shotgun to the back of my head? A swift death in a field would, at this point in time, be so much less painful than continuing to live life in Aurghville.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: Bathroom TMI

For my moms: TMI stands for “too much information” and you use it whenever someone tells you more about them than you would like to know. This acronym is usually used in chat and usually in response to something someone has typed about themselves.

But there are so many ways that we can tell others too much about ourselves. It may be the written word. It could happen verbally over the phone or in person.

Or you could trim your pubes and leave a trail of them all down the wall in the shower.

Thanks, citizen of Aurghville. I needed to know that you are keeping your undercarriage shorn and spiffy. Thanks for not rinsing them off the wall so I would be reassured that even though you are, in general, a disgusting human being that can’t be arsed to clean up the kitchen or bathroom, you are spending the time to meticulously groom your cha-cha*. Thank you.

Now I need you all to know that I realise that I’m just spreading the TMI further by posting this. I do. But if you read my blog you must know by now that if I suffer, God help me everyone suffers.

*I’m nearly 100% I know which citizen this belongs to as there is one in the house that is particularly disgusting. And that citizen is female, sad to say.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: The Toilet Paper Mysteries

Let me preface this by saying: I understand I’m not always good with other people. Especially stupid other people.

I know this. I am, after all, one of the founding leaders of The People Haters Club (we have party hats). But in recent years I’ve become a lot more tolerant of people in general (stop laughing). There are even specific people (my moms and three others) that I like.

But I still reserve a place in the darkest, scariest parts of my heart for stupid people. People like my flatmates.

They are making me crazy. Fine. Crazier.

Although there are many stories I could tell (and by stories I mean “shit I could complain about”) I would like to start at the most basic, the simplest thing that is making me want to burn the house down.

When I lived on my own (oh the days… how I miss those days… just me and the mold… and Frank my wee mousie… how I miss my old flatmates Frank and Mold… they were great…


That was the longest, most pointless aside ever mostly-contained in a set of over-strained parenthesis. Let me start The Chronicles again.

When I lived in my shoebox with Mold and Frank, it was easy to keep track of how quickly I went through the basics. After all, Mold only used up… I don’t actually know what mold needs to stay alive. I did use a lot of bleach trying to get rid of Mold, but that’s not really the same. And Frank was good about only trying to eat what I dropped until I blocked up his passageway.

This is still an aside. Damn.

Point is, when I was living on my own, I didn’t use up so much fucking toilet paper.

Yah, toilet paper. There is a serious toilet paper mystery in this house – we go through a frightening amount of it. It isn’t natural.

When I lived on my own, I went through about four rolls a month. Approximately. I wasn’t really counting… I’m doing some fairly solid guesswork. Now, there are four of us living in this flat, but we can go through four rolls in two days. Something about this is not right.

Now, I know some of it is going towards “natural uses”, as someone today obviously pooped (they very kindly left proof of their work in the toilet – a story for another Chronicle) and I would hope used some TP to clean up. But unless they are shitting themselves inside out on a daily basis, this does not account for the amount of missing toilet paper.

I suspect one or more of them may be selling it on the street for crack. I have no other explanation for how the hell so much of it goes so quickly. I just don’t know. Last Sunday I bought a total of 18 rolls of toilet paper. We are down to 6 already. SIX! In less than a week! What the freakshow, yo?

It makes me insane. Partially because once we run out, the other people living in Aurghville are too evil/lazy/vindictive/stupid to go and buy more. Surely it can’t be the price, as all anyone here ever picks up (myself included now that I realise how quickly they are snorting it) is the sand-paper grade shite from the pound shop which costs a pound for six rolls.

They can’t be bothered to buy it. They can’t be bothered to change the roll when they use the last of it. I learned today (the first time it happened I thought it may just be an oversight – nope, now it’s happened twice) that they can’t be bothered to give the inside of the toilet a wipe with the brush after laying an (apparently) sticky steamer.

In my new version of hell: this flat’s toilet is how I picture the toilet in hell to be.

I’m ranting. This isn’t a Chronicle – it’s a rant. But only because I’m angry. Angry and sad. Sad that I’m going to have to start buying my own stash of TP and storing it in my bedroom. I’m not contributing to their sick habits anymore. I moved in on March 8. I’ve purchased 34 rolls of toilet paper. If I was on my own, that would last me 8.5 months. I haven’t even lived here for three months yet.

I may never solve the Great Toilet Paper Mystery of Aurghville, but I can stop supporting it. And if I’m not sharing it, I’m going to go out and buy the most expensive toilet paper I can find. Maybe something made out of kittens.

Just remember to ask me for the “good stuff” if you are ever over visiting. You’ll have to, because all you’ll find in the Aurghville Toilet o’ Evil and Wrongness is the last scrapes of tissuey hope clinging to a bygone era of abundance and decadence in the form of a cardboard tube: an era when people replaced the empty loo roll.

Way to blog, turbo

>I’ve been neglectful of my blog writing. I’ve been busy. Or something.

I’m better at writing stuff in the blog when I’m having a laugh… and the chuckles aren’t quite so thick and frequent as they once were just now.

I’m mostly just in a very uncertain spot… not sure how work is going, not sure how the new flat is going, not sure of other things I don’t wanna talk about. You shush.

Lots of things to think about these days and not a lot to write about. That’ll change. My brain will burn out eventually from the thinking and my mouth will start working. I believe that’s one of my greatest weaknesses… that my brain and mouth never work at the same time.

My hope is that April will be a brighter, more sunshiny month with promises of good stuff to come.