Rantfest 101

As I have ranted about before, one of the flatmates I live with manages to annoy me in a variety of ways, but like probably most of you know, after living with someone for a while, the slightest thing they do can prove to be a pain in the ass.

After a certain amount of time, the slightest crumb out of place causes a bubbling volcano of irritation to build up inside.

or maybe it’s just me, in which case I will be one of those hyper agitated old men that spreads his piousness anti-joy everywhere he goes, but that’s neither here nor there.

The retard strikes back

It all started about two weeks ago on a Sunday night. I was chilling in my underpants (as if there was any other way to relax) and there was a knock on the door.

I got semi-dressed and answered the door to find a lady from the flat two stories down complaining that there was a leak coming in from the flat below (that’s where our landlord’s in-laws live).
I tried to contact them, but they only have a land line. So then I called the landlord and he told me his in-laws were away and that we should find the local and possibly alcoholic plumber, Misha.
I saw the damage the water had already done to the lady’s flat and was sorry I couldn't do more to help.

The next day, the cold water was shut off in the building (naturally, since the plumber couldn't access the flat where the leak was coming from), although this didn't worry me too much because four mornings a week I shower in the gym. Anyhow the next morning, flatmate calls me in the morning and is complaining. I explained that the water was off until the plumber could do something about the leak.

But this wasn't good enough. It’s unbearable she moaned, I haven't been able to wash my hair for two days!
Now, for the record, we’re not talking about flowing locks here - she has less hair than me. She also fails to understand that the whole building is suffering and some poor lady has massive water damage done to her ceiling.

But f*ck that, two days she can’t wash her hair!

Then she wants me to call the landlord and get something done. Somehow, she had decided that I was the one to fix the situation.
She had made the classic mistake of confusing me:

a dashing pre-scientology Tom Cruise-esque expat

with this:

a lovable plumber with a comical accident 

Now, all I could do was explain that the suspect alcoholic plumber couldn't do anything until the old folks came back. I had already spoken to the landlord and his wife about this and now I had her complaining. Multiple calls throughout the day ensued with her expecting some kind of new information.

But, what really baffles me is the following:

Why call me?
Why not check with the neighbours to establish whether it was just a problem with our water or the building?
Why not just call the landlord directly to ascertain the nature of the situation?

Again, the time she wastes calling is misspent energy, if she just refocused all that into actually doing something or finding something out, life would be much easier for all parties.

Why do I devote a post to this? Simply because all this translates into more stress for me where there need be no stress.
It’s fine if you are a female that lives by the creed of ‘the man fixes the problems’, that’s all good - when you have a f*cking man. Call your boyfriend, dad or landlord, not me.

So the result was that in the evening the old couple came back and the water was turned back on - all very straight forward.

fuck yeah

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