Just When I'd Started To Smile Again...

Somebody up there likes me.

There I was, trundling along, bemoaning the fact that art is born of struggle and the only thing I'm struggling into these days is my jeans, when the agency managing the property we're renting has a hissy fit and decides to evict us.

Perhaps evict is too strong a word. Maybe the term be-threatening-and-rude-on-the-phone-and-
impose-unagreed-upon-conditions-to-the-tenancy is more appropriate. Apparently the dogs, who were written into our original contract, have pooed, and the agency had no idea dogs did so. Although the mess is cleaned up every day, the agency claims it's causing environmental problems. Bluebottles and such.

"The Environmental Protection Agency have gotten involved," snarled the strange rep who phoned us today (our original agent was apparently avoiding us).

Wondering how the EPA gained access to the dogs' yard without knocking at our door first, I frowned and asked if Yer Man could fax me the site report.

"No I won't fax you the site report!" barked the agent, omitting to explain why. I know why, though. It's because he doesn't have one.

Basically, this agent guy whom we've never met and hasn't been to our house reckons the yard is not big enough for the dogs... the same dogs who are exercised every evening and are in the rudest of health. He went on to say that he had nothing against us, but the dogs had to go.

"There have been a number of complaints" he sniffed, but refused to be more specific than that. He said then that there was a bucket of dog poo in the garden... and here I agree. There is. It was very recently filled with water and a Council-recommended enzyme which we'd hoped would break down the mess in an environmentally friendly way. It's by the back wall, put up high and out of the reach of the dogs. No one else can get at it either. The house doesn't back onto anyone else's, so it's difficult to see who would have complained. Apart from our very elderly English neighbour, who keeps forgetting who we are even though Swe.Ge has a habit of helping him with his shopping.

"You have been warned about this before," Yer Man went on to say, lying through his teeth to the only people who could spot it. The last time we were in contact with the agency was earlier this week, when we asked them to find a plumber for the leaky rad as the carpet was wet and smelly. Before that was when the dishwasher broke.

So. Get rid of the dogs (who are always kept under control, whom we've had since they were pups, who are MiniMe's pets), or remove ourselves from the property within the month. Nice thing to say to a family who keep the house in an immaculate condition despite the leaking rads, the leaking taps, the moth infestation and the sticking windows... and especially thoughtful, I think, coming the week before the 5-year-old daughter starts Senior Infants.

Seeing as my sister knows the original agent, Yer Man who phoned today claimed that we were allowed rent the house as "a favour to a friend". I pointed out that I didn't know the owner of the house - y'know, the person from whom I'm renting the fucking thing. And being charged €950 a month for a place whose back door lock broke before we moved in and wasn't fixed since hardly sounds like a favour to me... In the same way that some grown man shouting and sneering down the phone to a woman he's never met and who had the courtesy to speak calmly to him hardly sounds like a professional. When I asked if he could put everything in writing, he said the only thing he'd write down for me was the notice to quit.

So, y'know. More struggle for me. More drama. Just in case my arty edge was being massaged away by security and happiness. I told you, someone up there likes me. They mightn't like MiniMe, but it's not like she matters, is it? She's amongst a population who have always been beholden to landlords, and part of a nation who favours them still.

Legal advice would be welcome, if any of you would like to email me.