The Foxes

I've told you about the foxes all over the place here in London, haven't I?
How at my old apartment, the elderly lady downstairs (who actually drove me nuts, but then we probably drove her nuts first), warned me to keep the lid on my rubbish bin (or top on the trash can) so the foxes wouldn't get to it?
How I laughed to myself and said right, yeah, that's a nice understated British way to say RATS.
How right after that, I saw my first fox, followed by my second and my third, and then I stopped counting?
Well, we've moved to fox city, folks.
They're all over the place here.
It's kind of eerie, actually, but original too.
There's a stand of unoccupied houses in front of us.
And a fox family has moved in there.
I kid you not.
They roam in and out of the broken windows there, sunning themselves on the roof, cleaning their paws in the daylight, a whole bunch of them. There's always one out there.
It's like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story.
The Foxes. By Edgar Allen Poe.
What do they get up to in the dead of night?
Our bedroom window looks out over the unoccupied houses. Which I know sounds trashy. But is actually kinda cool.
When I get up, first thing I do is look out the window and check what the foxes are up to.
This morning, one was out there, scratching his/her butt, when I opened the curtains.
He/she looked up at me, and stopped scratching.
Some of them look pretty unhealthy -- scrawny and mangy.
Yeah, some of them have mange, my neighbor told me.
Okay.
One of them walked into our garden last night.
But then ran away.
They're more scared of you than you are of them, my neighbor said.
Okay.
My husband says there are so many because they stopped hunting them here, the land of the fox hunt.
Okay.
The Foxes. By Edgar Allen Poe.
Every day.
Every night.
Right outside our bedroom window.

Screw British Telecom

Damn British Telecom. Damn Italia Telecom. And damn all the Telecoms of this world. It's such a stitch-up, as they say here.
I haven't written for a lot of reasons.
But the main reason recently is that I don't have reliable Internet access -- and won't have for ages. Weeks, even.
You'd think I was in Yemen or something.
Where I was going to go. But then didn't, largely because I lost reliable Internet access at home. And a landline with which to call Yemen to set it up.
And then my nerve.
And then the volcanic ash covered Britain.
Long story.
Back to British Telecom.
Who I hate.
Almost as much as I hate Italia Telecom.
We've moved to our new place in London. Which I love.
Even though it's tiny. It's like a doll-sized version of a house, especially for a spoiled American like me.
But still it's a house.
And I love it.
But no phone yet. Or Internet.
Been almost three weeks now.
You can't order a new phone line until you give up your old line.
So the day we moved, we called to order a new line.
Two-week wait for a phone, even though there's already a phone line here. And we had a phone. And a phone number, just a few blocks away.
We made the appointment. Then we made the mistake of calling to see if we could change it since my husband went to the election debate here in Bristol and I wanted to go with him.
After calling, we decided we shouldn't change it. Too risky. Really need a phone and Internet access. (Internet access two weeks after the phone. Don't even ask me why).
So I came back from Bristol after only one day.
They didn't show up for the appointment.
I cried.
Why does this shit have to be so hard?
Why do I have to keep moving?
Why aren't I just home now, wherever that might be?
Is it so hard to just be home?
I used to have a home. I used to have friends. I used to have a job. Why the hell did I leave everything?
Back to the Internet.
In the old apartment (which god, in hindsight, I really did not like and now thank god, I can just say it) you could crib onto other people's Internet access.
Here for some reason you can't.
So we're using a key, like at our side of the hill in Italy.
Which sometimes works.
And other times doesn't.
The line keeps falling. Which drives me crazy.
Which is why I haven't written.
Among other reasons.
Bigger reasons.
Don't-know-what-I'm-doing kinda reasons.