When Ballard met Poe
Okay, okay. You lot need a extra blog entry tonight, since I can’t just write yet another screed about Ghostbusters reboot (that fucking rectal cist in the culture’s backside) and call it a night. So let me tell you something that’ll make you laugh. From last night until nearly 10 O’Clock tonight, I had no back door. And when I say “I”, I mean “my house”- my own personal backdoor is as taut and inviting as ever. But what did my house lack a back door, I hear you ask. The answer is simple: because the fucking thing fell off. The day before yesterday, it partially jammed, and last night (as I came in from refilling the chickens’ water bowl as it happens) it simply fell off all together. Have you ever seen one of those cartoons where the character visits a comically dliapidated building and, when they knock in the door, it just falls over? Well, it looked like that, except, luckily, I was still attached to the door when it started to fall. It might have smashed on the ground, being a glass patio door, but by happy chance it didn’t.
As some of you know, I’ve been looking after the house on my own for the past week and a bit. What you may not realise is that I’m really, really not enjoying it. It feels like I’m fighting a rising tide of disorder with so many disparate causes that I simply have no chance of keeping on top of it. The sudden appearance of a large, unwieldy hole in my house as an entire door fell off was the apex of this chaos. It was also the thing that finally allowed me to see the funny side. The house is almost certainly going to be a tip when my relatives come home, but my attitude about that has descended into the realm of ‘ah fuck it’. I’ll do what I can to keep the place presentable, but I’m not bending over fucking backwards at this point. I can’t be blamed for the fact that our house is essentially The House of Usher crossed with a Ballardian High-Rise apartment.