excuse me if you’re a solicitor, or have family or friends who are. But my mood at the moment is that of a murderous psycho whenever I think about mine. The house is in the process of exchanging hands. The process is turning out to be the longest, most drawn out agonised scream in the history of the universe. My solicitor knows how much I need to move, how much I need to have SOME IDEA OF A COMPLETION DATE- and yet appears not to give a flying f–t about it. Just who is paying who here? She is -certainly- not doing me any favours and indeed appears to take a perverse glee in watching my blood pressure rise. I am cultivating a face like a cat’s arse (pursed lips and screwed up eyes) and an ulcer.


~ by entropycottage on June 23, 2008.

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