We Shall Consult The List

For those desperate for more information as to why that last post kicked off with so much rage: what's wrong with you?  Still, I'm going to tell you, because the last 36 hours have been a horrifying shit show in all ways but one, but that one is damned important.

So, in chronological order:

1. Fuck you, Easyjet.  If you're running two flights within 25 minutes of each other, and you have a 45 minute queue at check-in an hour before the first of those flights closes its gate, you may wish to have more than two desks in operation. A third desk for "speedy boarding" does not count, unless you can summon up the brainpower to realise that when the line for speedy boarding includes no passengers, that desk can take some of the prole overflow.  It is the ease with which that desk can be reached that some people will pay more for.  The desk itself is indistinguishable from the others, save the fact that a fucking idiot is sitting behind it.
2. Fuck you, Munich Airport. Your signs are confusing and infrequent, and your insistence on multiple security checkpoints with letter designations in addition to your check-in desks with lettered designations seems deliberately unhelpful.  That said, though, the real reason you're in the shit is for running three passport readers when three flight-loads of people are trying to get through, two thirds of whom just got delayed at check-in by a jellybrain. Further fuck-you points are awarded for letting people push in if they're on a fractionally earlier flight than those further back, because these errant fuckwits decided that with half an hour before their gate closes the best plan would be to pick up a Big Mac and fries.
   
   Oh, and fuck you, woman who took my bag at security.  There's hundreds of people trying to get through behind me, and you're moving at a snail's pace and getting shirty with anyone clearly trying to keep things moving.  The most important lesson to learn from House is that you can only be a twatasaurus if you're actually any good at your job.
3. Speaking of which, fuck you, surveyors who my landlady employs.  Don't think the fact I don't know your name is getting you off the hook.  When I phone in a possible leaking/decomposing bathroom ceiling, I expect you to show up even if it is a Saturday.  Failing that, I expect that, when you finally bother to show up, you will successfully diagnose the condition of my ceiling.  You will not go home,  tell my estate agents that there's no real hurry, and put your feet up with a beer whilst my fucking ceiling collapses.
   
   Replying to messages left on a Monday morning saying "Our tenant informs us his fucking ceiling has fucking collapsed, you fuckers" would also be a good idea.  There's no reason why the rest of the ceiling won't come down any minute.  Or even the guy upstairs.  Which would be unfortunate.  He's a prick.
4. Fuck you, the guy upstairs.  You're a prick. I hope this time around I won't have to explain to you that legal liability extends to things you're responsible for even if you don't give a shit about them.
5. Fuck you, Sky Go. If you're going to spend twenty five minutes (at the very least) buffering every time you reach an ad break, you could at least not randomly restart the program every now and again, only to take longer buffering the second time around.  Took me four hours to watch The Newsroom and Supernatural yesterday. It's fortunate circumstances had ensured this could not eat into bath time.

So that's everything that really pissed me off since yesterday morning.  Except for one more thing, which was that an extremely good piece of news looked distinctly wobbly for most of today, for reasons we won't go into.  Fortunately, it all came together in the end, so it can now be announced: The Other Half and I are moving in together.

This is my first time living with someone I've had any interest in kissing (sorry Louise! Sorry Susie! Sorry my sister!), so I expect it will be a most instructive experience.  Depending on start dates for her new job, TOH and I could be ensconced as early as next month, or as late as New Year.  More details nearer the time, if only when I start panicking over not being able to scratch my testicles with my egg-whisk anymore, or whatever.

Hilarious update: visited the bathroom at midnight to find it was raining in there, meaning these people not only failed to predict my ceiling collapsing, but rather exaggerated when they suggested leaking wasn't going to be a problem.  Though in fairness, the guy above might have just lied about getting it fixed, like the turd he is.  This is so fun!