Nothing's Perfect

You may not believe me when I tell you this, but the other night I discovered that my bed was broken. The first few nights I had noticed that it tilted considerably to the right, but I thought nothing of it. I thought that perhaps the wooden boards had parted and left an unsupported part on the right side. However, when I crawled underneath to inspect it further, I found that the person who built it forgot to nail in the support beam on the right side where all of the planks rest. It had a few nails toward the head and foot, but the middle parts were bending down towards the floor. Great. I certainly couldn’t sleep on it, because I knew if I did I would fall to the floor in the middle of the night. So I threw the mattress on the floor, in the living room, and remade my bed. I hollered to Rachel to come see what happened and she scurried in. When I explained what happened to her, her face filled with outrage and she exclaimed, “Bloody ‘ell!” No other expression could have done justice to our feelings at that moment. She promptly apologized for her language, but I just started laughing. I couldn’t very well stay mad about it after that. I mean, to be honest, the floor was almost more comfortable then the bed…

The next day I went to the multi-purpose woman downstairs and explained what happened. She was horrified that I slept on the floor (though I don’t know why, it’s not like I didn’t have a mattress, and it wasn’t really that big a deal), and she quickly found someone to go have a look at it with her. She said she’d make sure it got fixed that very day, which I think may be a French record. So I took her and this other lady upstairs to have a look at the broken bed, and stupid me and left the door to my ‘room’ open. Remember that room I’m not supposed to have because it’s filled with computers?? Well they had given me the key for it, so I had opened it and thrown my luggage in there so it wouldn’t be all over the living room. Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to have the key and I certainly wasn’t supposed to have put my things in there. The ladies saw the room was open and they freaked out. They started going off in French about how it’s not supposed to be unlocked and I wasn’t supposed to have the key and all sorts of stuff. Crap. Now I’ve done it. They told me I had to take my stuff out, lock it, and return the key. I asked where I should put all my stuff, and they pointed out the closet (which had an old bicycle in it and other random junk) and then a wardrobe (ha that’s british for you) which had a rolled up carpet and some other stuff in it. Well, it looks like I’ll be needing some cleaning supplies if I’m going to unpack, ever. For now my suitcases are crammed in a corner of the living room, and it looks like they’re vomiting clothes out onto the floor. Rachel, bless her heart, isn’t bothered by all my stuff. I think she’s more upset for me than I am, because at this point I’ve just stopped caring. And really, the living room’s not so bad, but I really just want to be settled and it’s hard to do when I know in a month I’ll be removing/arranging everything into another room. Oh well.