Posts Tagged ‘Leicester’

Paradise Settee

July 3, 2010

I’m still in Leicester! Furthermore, I’m being held here against my will…

By sofas.

Earlier today I purged the house of 99% of my worldy possessions, with the help of my aunt, her fella, and their Volvo.  Sofa so good. I, myself, was also supposed to accompany this menagerie of people and objects back up to York.

However, there are also two awesome leather sofas in my house. They were given to us by our lettings agency when they saw that our lounge was furnished with a lone deckchair, and a beanbag which bled little white bobbles every time someone sat on it, and the resulting spike in Lounging Quality (scientific term) sent my housemates and I into levels of comfort previously limited to only the wildest of furniture fantasies.

And so the issue arises of what to do with these big lumps of ex-cow, now that I’m moving. I couldn’t leave them for the next tenants to take advantage of, after all – that would just be wrong – but neither do I yet have anywhere in York to relocate them to. A solution for now is that I’m going to have to stay in Leicester ’til Monday, and rent out some storage space to stick them in until the time comes where I will either need them to furnish my new place, or take them to market and trade them for magic beans.

To protect the sofa’s identity, an actor has been used in this recreation

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A Tale of Two Uni’s

August 25, 2009

Typing this entry out one-handed, so it might be a bit shaky. Why? Read on…

Here in Leicester there are two universities; The University of Leicester (which I went to) and DeMontfort University. The latter used to be a polytechnic and was upgraded to uni status, so there’s a healthy mock/hate rivalry between the two.

The house I live in is deep, deep inside enemy territory; with the DM campus itself only five minutes down the road, the surrounding area consists almost entirely of DeMontfort students, so whenever the inter-uni events start and the ‘Leicester Uni is scum’ posters start going up in the windows of surrounding houses, it always feels prudent to keep one’s head down. I’ll leave the ‘your dad works for my dad’ chants to the people attending the rugby matches.

Anyhow, the nearest cash point to the house is outside their student union, so every now and again an expedition into the belly of the beast has to be made. Today was one such day.

Or evening, to be precise. The DeMontfort campus is not a pretty sight once the sun sets, and the ‘Demon’ part of its name begins to come into effect. Rabbles of students emerge from the murkier corners, perhaps even dragging themselves out of the cracks in the pavement itself, to roam the streets outside their student union.

In the midst of this horde is the cash machine.

As I paced towards it however, something caught my eye. Sitting on the concrete steps that lead up to the union was a blonde girl, hunched over, with a puddle of nasty looking vomit upon the ground in front of her.

Lovely, I thought, having skirted past, and keyed in my pin-number. Ten pounds.

As I waited for the growling machine to produce my grocery money, I cast another look at the girl. She was mumbling to herself, and did look in a bit of a bad way. I folded the note, shoved it and my card into my pocket, and went over.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

No response. Her head hung low so I couldn’t make eye-contact, instead having to make do with staring at the poorly-dyed roots of her hair. I reached down to pat her on the shoulder and ask if she had any friends nearby.

The girl snarled angrily, swatting my hand away, and I felt a sharp scratch across the palm of my hand. Shocked, I took a step back and noticed, to my disgust, that her long, fake nails were caked with reddish vomit.

Well; that was enough of that. Maybe she could tell that I was not one of ‘her kind’, so to speak. In any case, I wasn’t about to risk getting clawed at again so, unsettled, I left her to it and came back home. Next time I’m definitely going to the cash machine in town.

And those damn scratches are really starting to itch.

Council Wrasslin’

June 1, 2009

Running on three hours sleep, and it feels like my blood’s been replaced with Tesco economy brand potato juice…

Today was a long day of Council Wrasslin’, a competitive sport which I’ve become a regular participant in over the last year. It involves going into the Leicester Council benefits office, and coming out better off than you were when you went in. Today, they casually told me I had £1000 of Council Tax overdue that needs paying immediately, or else court summons will be issued.

“Wuh…?”

“No, no, I’m afraid you do. Look here: (gestures vaguely at screen full of numbers) That tells us you’re overdue a payment of £1024, so how would you like to pay it? Direct Debit?”

Excuse me while I spit out my unemployed lungs in horror…

To cut a long story short, after a lot of pressing and wrangling, someone admits that they were wrong, it is indeed an error, and all is rectified. Damn straight…  It didn’t help that the second guy dealing with my ‘enquiries’ trembled constantly, and every now and then emitted soft barking sounds to himself, but appearances are usually decieving and indeed the chap turned out to be the most useful person in there and it got sorted eventually.

Not much I can think to add; that took up most of the day. Oh actually, I got my hair cut, which is a fairly momentous occasion in its rarity. Next job is tackling the beard; I’ll set aside tomorrow morning for that task, methinks… 😉