This is a picture, not of where he was moving from but the place he was moving into. He had already managed to fill up a large lounge space with junk, tins bottles and useless papers. He has about six printers and fax machines. Three large televisions. Four computers. More other useless junk, all of it covered in layers of him and it all stinks of him too, though the smell is stronger and more repulsive as it clings to his room. I do not envy Bob, who will likely have to bleach the walls to get it looking acceptable for the next broken client to mess up.
My faith in the world has not been high as of late, and it has once again taken another dent this morning when I helped Bob move a tenant out of his flat.
So, we arrive and Bob points out the man we are helping. He is an older man, dirty and unkempt with a bald top but long white hair floating about in the weather. He is tall, especially in comparison to Bob, and stands at least two heads up on him. We shake hands when we meet and I notice immediately his long but oddly well kept fingernails. There is just something wrong about this man that goes further than the shabby appearance and musty smell that surrounds him.
I talked with Bob about him, about his life. A partner, both in business and otherwise, who died and left this man to grieve. I didn’t meet him before, I wonder how different he would have been. He was a businessman, of some sort, perhaps he would have worn suits and cut his hair smartly. Now he does not even seem to wash, losing a loved one can do a lot to a person.
When he talks he sounds intelligent, or at least intelligent enough. It is an odd juxtaposition between what my olfactory senses are picking up and the judgements I am making in my own head. I don’t dwell on any of this because I am there to move things, and there were a lot of things to be moved.
I move everything and I constantly think about the man, a man I will likely never see again, never recognize in the street. I just want to get out, I don’t want to see this part of a person. I tell myself that I will never be like that, I know that I will never be like that because I have more will. I wonder what he was like before, again, because I want to know how much will he had.
The whole encounter is quite emotionally numbing. I leave and go on to get a card for mum. I write a blog about it and then I hope I forget.
I have been told about my Nan’s other tenants, the state they leave the rooms and the incredible, unbelievable way they lead their lives. She and Bob have many stories of these weird people. It seems like the better tenants leave quickly, too, and the difficult ones are, well, difficult for a reason. A recent story about a room full of buckets, bottles and containers: all full of piss, because a man could not hold himself to go out to the toilet. Not his fault, perhaps, as there is a problem with his body, he cannot help it… and yet he leaves all these bottles in the room when he leaves, as well as a stained bed? He leaves it for the old landlords to clear up. How the hell does someone do that? When does someone lose their self respect to that level? How could they be that… well… selfish! What about their lives do they think pushes them to this point?
These disgustingly unremarkable people, who are not helped. I think I’m done now. There’s a limit of thinking about it where I get angry instead of sad, and I don’t want to be angry because I do not know who I should be angry at. That kind of internal frustration I have enough of, so I’ll let this one go.
On a horribly lighter note to ruin any emotion I brought into my blog, I saw some more cute animals on the news earlier. It seems that Wild Boars have been getting stuck in and populating Britian like crazy. I don’t know if they’re in the New Forest but in Glos, the forest of Dean there are over 50! They are the cutest little piggies I have ever seen, we’re not talking tusked beasts here, we’re talking furry little Babes. Unfortunately, the BBC don’t like me embedding their videos on my blog, so here’s a link instead.