When will it end?
Will this house ever be sold? I begin to wonder.
My Rage is the stuff of which legends are made. It burns and writhes and fills me up with its ugly black cacophony. It would be one thing if the buyers were being difficult and kicking up a fuss about the house, but it's not. It's all of the people who are facilitating the deal: the solicitors, the estate agents, the mortgage company. Even the letting agents are messing things up. And everyone's gone on holiday. We've dealt with three solicitors now, two people at the estate agency, and three people at the letting agency - and that's just on our side.
All of this, predictably, is food for Rage. My Rage is a tapeworm: it's just growing and growing inside of me, feeding off of all of this. I worry that it will do the Alien thing and just burst out, spraying everyone with blood as it spits and seethes and annihilates everything in its path.
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Beth Ballingall
food lover : world traveller : gamer : New Yorker : twenty-something : former Londoner : handbag lover : erstwhile soprano : geek