I thought that maybe it had something to do with the phase of the moon – you know the ol’ must be a full moon – that’s when all the crazies come out. But actually no, it’s the complete opposite of a full moon. It’s a new moon.
Which means… er… time to start something?
Crazy-makey: if you are a crazy-maker or somewhat crazey-makey, then YOU ARE A NUTJOB. Pure and simple. In particular, you take pleasure in driving other people up the wall, or you don’t even notice that everything you do drives people up the wall because you are that much off the planet. (i.e. not playing with a full deck of cards… a few sandwiches short of a picnic… the lights are on but nobody’s home…)
You most likely need therapy, a lot of it, and you are annoying, the kind of annoying that drives people to do crazey-makey things themselves. (Think: John Wilkes Booth.)
Occasionally I’ll see this elderly lady at the supermarket who’s wearing a lot of pink: pink tu-tu, pink stockings, pink lipstick. I don’t think she showers regularly. I think she thinks she’s a pretty-princess-fairy-doll.
She probably is.
Back to Friday crazey-makey episodes.
Crazy # 1: was a weird freak of a man who rang the University’s information number (which, by the way, I only look after for one hour a month). Anyway weirdo phone-man was quite possibly using the call as a free sex-line because it took me about 30 seconds to realise that oh… I thinks he’s … eeeeeeeeeew!
Crazy # 2: was a junkie (with friend) who politely asked how far away
I told them to catch the bus.
They then thanked me quite nicely, didn’t try to steal anything, and left. (At least I don’t think they tried to steal anything).
Casing the joint? Probably. (oh but they were so nice those junkies… MUCH nicer than masturbatory-man)
The neighbours have been deathly quiet. Not even the creak of rigor or a car-door slam to speak of. Nuthin’.
Crazey-makey-next-door-lady seems to have lost her voice, or broken her speakers, or bought some headphones.
She wrote us a letter last week. I thought that maybe it was going to be an apology. (Why I thought this – I really don’t know.) Instead it was a ‘fuck you’ letter. The specific kind of ‘fuck you’ letter that doesn’t actually use any swear words, and on first reading actually looks like it may be a misguided attempt at an apology, but on further inspection, the creepy, rank odour of screw you buddy, I’m gonna do exactly what I want, and I don’t care if it shits you wafts in and burns your nostril hairs. Oh yes, lovely. Chaaaaaarming. Nice, nice nice.
She rounded off the letter with a bit of ‘actually I am a nice community-minded person with a social conscience, and it’s your fault that you don’t get to see it.
Well hell! My apologies to you.
So before I let crazey-makey-next-door-lady infiltrate my brain cells too much and turn me into a pink tu-tu wearing nanna, I wrote to the council and asked them to deal with it.
I think they did.
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