Over the weekend that came out, rather uncharacteristically if I do say so myself, by tearing a strip out of the F-word's ass over the phone. It turns out leaving your girlfriend for a month while she does the heavy lifting and organizing of a move to the opposite fucking side of the planet really pisses her off. What surprises me about it the most is how long it took me to freak out; I'd already given him a quiet, calm, measured piece of my mind about what a motherfucker he was soon after his departure, but the shit really hit the fan on Sunday, less than a week before I'm free, and at that point I only had about six more things to do, versus roughly 50 fucking million.
Now I'm down to 1.5 or two things. I'd say 1.5, because the possible 0.5 is with Belgacom and I've got documentation on my side, which these beastly pedants care about, so I'm just going to ignore it. The full thing is a bit of a bastard, that's the etat de lieux de sortie with my landlord, who has a real talent for making me want to beat his fucking brains in with a crowbar, or even my own as long as it means I don't have to listen to his querolous motherfuckingness anymore. Usually, in fact, I delegate responsibility for him to the F-word, but while that motherfucker's off on his fucking Roman Spirit Quest I'm left to it myself.
Anyways, all of this would be easier to take if the apartment wasn't already empty, which means I'm sleeping on a camp bed in an echoing Art Nouveau cavern, a spotless one at that because we had the cleaners in yesterday (a lovely experience which convinced me that we're going to get some domestic help in Australia, because I will never ever like cleaning shit but it's nice when shit is clean. Also this way we can split the bills on the cleaner and then not resent each other for not doing housework - just take the hit financially) and now I'm afraid to touch anything for fear of making it dirty again and having to clean it up with my now rudimentary store of possessions.
And, of course, France's unions are ruining my careful, long-cherished plan to go to Italy via the Paris-Rome night train by starting an open-ended strike today. No idea when it will wrap up, they're overdue for a great big multi-week extravaganza in historical terms, so as insurance I bought a refundable plane ticket; I'm determined by hook or by crook to get the fuck outtta here this week. But do I ever fucking hate flying and a life in Australia will involve a fuckload of it; I just wanted this final experience of comfortable international train travel, the fuckers.