The neighbour's roof

Hope I didn't look like too much of an idiot--drenched; hair in a greasy bun; dressed in old army fatigues, two sizes too big, and a pink 'McGill Princess' t-shirt, two sizes too small; bailing out my window well with a tin cup--when the three hhhhhhot Italian work dudes I've been checking out for the past few days pull up in their black TransAm to recommence the big renovations on the place across the street.

Meanwhile the roof next door is a disaster and I can't get in touch with the absentee landlord owner * for anything. Oh yeah. Hence the bailing out the window well.

Hair's dried finally. Extra-frizzy just to make me feel better.



* insert short conversation sometime about living in Montreal and renting out both the flats in my place here. And oh the endless worry of being miles away, my beloved home in the hands of tenants **. Sending vibes over the airways, "check the lint trap, check the lint trap..." and just waiting for that panicky emergency phone call about the washing machine going nuts, its hoses gushing angrily, snaking water all over the place.

** actually they've all been really cool. But still.