Council tax woe
04.01.06, 7:45 pm

Sheffield Council are nothing but a big load of robbing BASTARDS. They were right at the front of the Robbing Bastards queue when the world began, way in front of Orange phone network company, the TV licensing people and Manchester Metro tram services (�1.80 to get from Eccles to Piccadilly Station � a frigging return costs less. In fact, why didn�t I just buy one of those in the first place? Buggery.) I should probably explain:

I went on a spontaneous house viewing tonight, as Lisa and me both found a house we liked the look of. Got there, looked round with the landlord, and it was the most gorgeous place ever. Really, really lovely, and I was seriously considering going for it. And then I found out that the rent�s actually extortionate, and completely took it off the cards, but that�s not the point. The point is, I asked the people who lived there about council tax. They firstly said it was a Band C property, to which I nodded my head and pretended to understand the significance of � I know the more expensive the house the further down the alphabet its banding is, but that�s about it � and then they tell me that it�s about �1400 a year. For fuck�s sake, man. Who the hell can afford that?! I bet it�ll be similar for all the houses we look round too. My god, (and I wish you could hear me saying all this in my actual voice, because it doesn�t sound half as pissed off as it should written down) it�s only bloody South Yorkshire, it�s not exactly the height of luxury living.

Note to drivers who wave me across the road I�m about to cross when it�s dark: I can�t actually see you waving me across, due to it being night-time and all, so don�t act all pissed off just because it took me a nanosecond longer to work out what it actually was that you wanted me to do. GOD.

Playing RHCP � Californication at the moment with full bass on, and the baseline is consequently soothing my mood. Lack of money for the foreseeable future + lack of company + hormones is nobody�s friend. If nothing else, my music system here in Sheffield is totally kick ass. I haven�t done nearly enough revision today, but I have at least gone to the gym. I couldn�t wait to go to the gym actually, because although I don�t think I�ve put any weight on over Christmas (all the clothes I own appear to be too big for me, which is great and everything but what the hell am I supposed to wear?) it�s better to be safe than sorry. It�s pointless me actually weighing myself, because I have actual Muscle Tone now which distorts any kind of reading, so I tend to judge my weight by how far I can stick my finger into the side of my hip. Aaand now I sound about ninety years old� god, that�s probably just the kind of thing my gran used to do before they invented scales or whatever.

The pissed-offness of the house hunting has reminded me, bizarrely, of something else that regularly pisses me off. I have no other recent news, so this tangent can finish the entry off:

There�s a guy doing Biomedical Sciences who�s in my lectures (there�s about six different groups � neuroscience, biomedical sciences, physiology etc, and we all share core modules), and he always comes in ten minutes late, without fail, with a pen in his mouth and his pad under his arm and a really nonchalant expression on his face. Everyone, and that�s a good 200 of us, hates him with a passion, and we call him Ginger Ron, the reason for which I�m sure you can guess. I think his real name�s Daniel, but in lectures you always just hear from somewhere in your vicinity "God, did you notice bloody Ginger Ron?" or, if it�s Amy, "For fuck�s sake, did you notice goddamn fucking Ginger Ron? Who the fuck does he think he is? How hard is it to get here on time, we�re only in the pissing Arts Tower!" Girl likes to swear. He was in my dissection group last year, and would frequently sit next to me around the steel tables of body bits and make smarmy remarks to me. I was always very much, "Yeah hi, that�s lovely but I�m currently in the process of trying to pretend to study this severed foot without actually looking at it, because the brown leathery skin and sticking out ankle bone is making me want to vomit all over you." Seriously, they couldn�t have picked a more shrivelled, revolting, Jurassic-aged foot if they'd tried.

Believe it or not, dissection was kind�ve all right, once you got used to the gross factor and as long as the specimens weren't too horrible, but "foot week" was week two and I wasn�t quite there then. I looked pretty good in a lab coat though, more so than Paddy, who looked like some kind of miniature vet. Amy hated dissection with a passion, and used to sit as far away from the tables as possible. She�d also douse herself with half a bottle of perfume each session, to try and block out the revolting smell of formaldehyde � formaldehyde smells like a combination of hospitals, vinegar and death. I always forgot to perfume myself up, and so spent a lot of my time smelling her wrist and looking like a big ol� lesbian. So glad I don�t have it this year.

Lost tonight, which makes me vaguely happy. What makes me happier is that Becky is coming back tomorrow, and I won�t be batting solo chez Sheffield anymore. It�s distinctly creepy being in this house on my tod.

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