My blissful existence, which consists of staring out the window, reading things and stuffing bad food down my throat, was hindered this morning by the approach of the workmen. The small leak under the sink required fixing, the plumber stated the sink required replacing, this requires renovating the entire kitchenette.
I awaited their arrival with baited breath.
They came, they saw, they debated, they pointed, they measured, they cogitated, they refused, they changed their minds, they pointed once again, they remeasured, they cogitated but mostly stood staring blankly muttering "Well...maybe" and "Hmmm..." "We could ..." and "But what about that..." and so on.
Eventually they decided, it all had to come out. All required renovation.
They stared at me.
"Everything has to be moved," they stated happily, grinning too cheerfully for my liking.
"Where to?" enquired I.
Giggles all round from them.
"There may be dust," said one.
"With you there is always dust said I," bringing nods and agreement from both.
Quite how the hoover has lasted so long no-one knows.
Eventually we agreed. Next Tuesday they will arrive, remove the entire kitchenette and replace it. There is no other option. The leak is one thing but underneath all is becoming rotten and requires work either now or later. I suppose this was built in the 1970's, possibly 45 - 50 years ago so it will be getting old and as bits underneath were breaking off as they fiddled about it is probably the time for action.
The actual leak has been temporarily sealed, downstairs need worry no more, bar the noise and dust of course, but now I have to move everything into space that does not exist and continue to live. Next week I will need to live in a workshop!
I look forward to this...!
During the discussion we discussed St Stephens in London where the Landlord found me all those years ago. There I was, up there at the top, the window open as it is easier to open it than clean it, and quite happy bar the number of disturbed and disturbing tenants that were beginning to arrive. So I moved to this wee market town full of boredom where I fitted in perfectly.
However I did learn something I had not known before. I was under the impression the first landlord in London had bought the house, indeed all his houses, during the war. It appears this was wrong, he obtained these run down premises, and continued to let them be run down as much as possible, until the council made him do them up. He sold them!
In fact he had obtained the building in the early 60s when Peter Rachman, a notorious landlord, had died and the buildings sold on. Rachman had specialised in bedsit tenancies. Usually the West Indians that came in during the 50s were his clients as he knew there were less protections for them. He, or at least those who collected the high rents, were known to use despicable tactics on the clients. Setting dogs on those who could not pay, acid thrown, or removing the staircase so they could not get it, or out! In the end this led to many changes in law, though it did not help that race riots in that part of London were common at the time. He moved himself into Winnington Road, Hampstead, and moved around in a chauffeur driven Rolls-Royce. He was done on occasions by the police, who were desperately seeking to catch him and his men, for prostitution that was taking place in his flats. I sometimes wonder who has been sleeping in my bed there in times past!
I had been told he was a Jew who ended up in Auschwitz but in fact he was a Polish Jew caught by the Germans who escaped in Soviet held territory. This did him no good as he was sent to Siberia with 3 million other Polish men, women and children, and eventually they escaped when Hitler invaded Russia and these men formed the 2nd Polish Corps. He served in the Middle East and ended his war in Italy. From there they were moved to the UK where Rachman like so many others remained.
Rachman died after marrying his long time girlfriend but he had many other woman at the time including Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davis, famous for other famous people they knew. He kept them in local flats, for the use off, and his money was a major attraction for them. However his style of record keeping, not letting the left hand know what the right hand is doing, meant that at his sudden death, he took a heart attack while driving, there was insufficient paperwork to prove ownership of properties. His friends grabbed what they could.
I need to state at this point my landlord is not like this man. This landlord does not offer a small payment to move, insert loud, all day and night party loving types all around, or indeed do deals with the Kray twins to keep them out of his hair.
Dealing with plumbers can of course be worse than this...
