I haven't had a facial tic since my mother-in-law used to visit us for a month in Minnesota, and that was thirty years ago.
This weekend, the tic returned when Grizelda, our landlady, returned from a two-week stay in the hospital and brought along Uriah Heep, her cloying caretaker, who keeps wandering over into our side of the house to look at the plumbing and declare that he sees nothing wrong with any of it.
"I am a Christian, and I don't lie." What an obsequious little bastard.
There isn't a bathroom sink or shower in this house that drains properly. Every morning, brushing your teeth is an exercise in watching your foamy spit float atop a sink full of warm water and wondering if it will actually make it down the drain. Only warm water to brush your teeth in, unless you use the bathtub spigot, which begins with ice cold water. You run it for a few minutes. Turn it off. Wait several minutes. Turn it on again and then, voila, there is hot water.
If you want a shower, you are standing in three inches of water.
This is not a simple matter of hair clogging the drain. We know how to fix that. This is more systemic.
Tom waited until Uriah Heep went to church this morning and had a calm talk with Grizelda and got the rent lowered by two hundred dollars a month.
The sun is shining brightly on the water.