Welcome to the rabbit's hole. A blog on pulp.
Illustration by jaqian
Everybody has a weak point. A point that other persons ought better not to cross. A point were one gets angry. I, for example, don’t like to be fucked over.
Not that Iris did. Well, I guess she didn’t really intended to. Or I still try to stick to that belief. It’s gets harder after what happened, I admit it. She basically took my rent – twohundredandthirty quid – and my deposit – another twohundredandninety quid – and run away with it. I’ve been told that Bristol is a very expensive place and I am certainly overpaid regarding that I only work twelve hours a week. But I’m still pissed.
But that only turned out when I was already considering the idea of moving out. I’m no angel, I considered moving out long before I mentioned it to anyone. Long before I actually acknowledged it to myself. What would also be a pertinent observation about me is that I am a lazy bastard. Which was more or less the reason why I didn’t care, why I didn’t move out. I had a nice room, I had just moved in, I had a stunning view on the Edinburgh Castle, I simply saw no reason.
So I stayed.
And got fucked over another time. This time it was the agency.
Kingford Estates Ltd. is that sort of company people around here would call a ‘bunch of fuckers’. An interestingly good description if you ask me. What happened unfolds like this: If I wasn’t an angel my flat-mates definitely were devils. Their philosophy was as simple as ineffective. The agency wasn’t very obliged to their duties so they decided to drop their’s. Not smoking in the flat was, as I already mentioned, one of them. And after the agency didn’t really care about the state of their property we stopped to do so, too. How could we have, anyways? With no hover cleaning was definitely out of question. It was cold outside, so we stopped smoking out there. And, what none of us did know: Mario stopped paying the bills. That he spent the money the others gave him for his own purposes if he needed to is another story.
Nevertheless, after a wile and many complaints things started to turn out positive. Or so we thought. We received a letter from the agency telling us that we would be relocated to a hotel for three days in order to complete the final repairs in kitchen and bathroom. Which was a brilliant idea. There was only one problem. The problem was small, had long hair and a German nationality. It was me.
As a subtenant your landlords don’t even know about the amount of tenant’s rights you can claim is ridiculously small. You’re basically homeless. And of course it is a little bit difficult to check into a hotel if you’re supposed to be a) Spanish b) female and c) beautiful. Assumed of course, you don’t match those criteria.
Since I didn’t, I chose the way of making myself official. Being official is something expensive in Scotland. And compared to Germany it is just crazy. In Germany there are no agencies. I’ve been a subtenant for my whole life, I never signed a contract and if I payed I simply handed over some cash.
Well, at least this didn’t change. The amount of cash I payed to Kingsford Estates summed up to exactly onehundredandtwenty British Pound Sterling. For staying exactly one month… but let’s stick to the storyline. At least this made me a rightful tenant, for good measure even a tenant that was internationally credible, since I had to pass a so called international credit check which should prove that I never committed the crime of running away without paying my rent. So far so good.
That nothing was done, when we came back is a different kettle of fish.
to be continued…