giovedì, agosto 26, 2010


Things are looking quite bad for the cat, my public tears don't seem to have the power they once did, and my last-ditch hope in the matter is that the Belgian ministry will accept the Australian ministry's permission to not be fucking noobs in the case. In a nutshell, my vet can complete the lacking formallity in an afternoon, but in that case the ministry still won't accept his prior rabies vaccinations and blood tests - we'd have to start again and that means Lexie spending an unacceptably long time in quarantine. In which case she's much better off moving in with Sugarplum.

Well, she is in any case. I think that is adding an extra dimension of pain to the situation, but is also a mighty reassurance: she would have been much better off there in the first place, but I just wanted her to stay with me so much, and maybe this is all me being unacceptably greedy. Well, of course it is.

And my landlord has started being bullying. I can deal with bullies well in English, particularly the sexist sort, like him, who try to bully women and then are all nicey-nicey with men; those type tend to buckle like poorly made bridges in an earthquake when you demonstrate a touch of spine and shouting. But in French I find them crippling. So the F-word is mostly taking over landlord-us relations. I just can't bear it anymore.

And work. And all that. Fuck. If I wasn't going on vacation tonight, I'd be fucking shit myself with the sort of generalized stress.

mercoledì, agosto 25, 2010

The Shoddyssey part IV

I am in a state, my dears, a fucking state, I tell you, and feeling so sorry for myself I reckon I must be about to hop on the Red Dragon's back, which is fucking perfect, since I'll be taking a ten hour flight to Vancouver on Saturday. And what is doing it is something very fucking simple: uncertainty. Uncertainty at work (I know I'm getting a contract for Australia, but at the moment, have no fucking idea what kind of contract it'll be, and judging from the goings-on there I won't for awhile, and it's doing my head in) and uncertainty over the cat.

There has already been a vast amount of hand-wringing over her, of course, as I've written about before, but yesterday it looked as though finally at least the present stage of things was getting sorted out - I had one more peice of documentation to get, from a government ministry, to be able to apply for her 'visa'. I even had an appointment to go in and pick it up. And then I got a call. It turns out her vet here isn't actually a vet. Apparently the problem is that he didn't bother picking up his diploma from the ministry when he got his qualification 15 years ago, so now the ministry won't issue the paper, because he's not on their rolls as a vet. He is trying to sort things out, obviously, and hopefully the professional inconveniences will light a fire under his fucking retard half-ass (and yes, I'm angry; who the hell doesn't pick up their diploma, for fuck's sake?). But this could basically deep-six the whole fucking thing.

I hate Belgium. I hate it so fucking much. I wish it would fucking die. This fucking shittery of a country should get shoved up France's ass and die like a fucking de-limbed hamster. And this miserable crap-puddle could be the thing that costs me my fucking cat.

To ice the fucking ragecake my fucktard, shitwit Belgian neighbours built a pool in June, swam in it twice, abandoned it (it's now a lovely shade of bright green), and let it turn into a fucking mosquito farm so our apartment is fucking infested with the fuckers. Last night we put up a mosquito net and managed to get our first good sleep in two fucking weeks. Of course I've written to the commune to complain. At this rate the sons of bitches will get on the case in December, when the fucker's frozen over, and then send me a bill for wasting their time, because of course by then there'll be no fucking mosquitos left.

Oh fucking give me patience, lord Jeebus. Or arm me with fucking thunderbolts. Either way.