The blame game

I have six minutes until CSI: Miami, my favorite show to hate, starts. How bad can David Carusoe get? Do people really watch this show and think it's interesting?

Anyway, in that time I can sum up the laundry list (literally) of things that have gone wrong with this flat:
* boiler (hot water and central heat) has broken at least five times
* hob (stove) went crack, sizzle, pop
* washing machine was leaking into apartment below
* microwave just broke
* sink in loo is leaking due to improper installation
* mold in bathroom out of control
(* in winter, mold in flat in general out of control)
* windows won't stay open to let in fresh air and there's no A/C
[the clencher:] * the fridge is broken

I've been noticing lately that my cheese is sweaty, my yogurt is runny, my Pepsi Max isn't really cold. But since the fridge was actually freezing beer and milk on the lowest setting during winter, I figured maybe during summer it had a hard time keeping things cold. The clotted milk, 9 days from its expiration date, told me otherwise.

And I wonder why Vaughn has been so sick lately, why she vomited three times, including some bile, the last time I gave her milk. Sheesh.

I know I shouldn't blame London or Britain but I do. It's easy. Almost as easy as blaming George Bush for everything wrong with America, and believe me, I'd blame him for this, too, if I could. I'm sure I could find a way. But in the meantime, this is London's fault and I couldn't hate this place more than I do in this particular instant ... except for the next ...