Never Rains But It Sure Pours!

I got my letter telling me my revised pay. I made out reasonably well compared to some other 9% of the people in the university whose morale I suspect is quite low at the moment. Life seemed good for about 5 minutes as this particular worry was over.

Then this afternoon there came a phone call from Barkers, a letting and estates agents on the Queens Road. They wanted to know if I would authorise them to be allowed in my flat to measure it, as apparently the landlord has decided to sell the entire building.

This is, I believe, a standard practice in renting, where your property changes owners but the agency continues working on their behalf and it's unlikely they'll be moving people out given the letting agency has not even filled all the flats in the building. The estate agent guy told me everything was okay, worst case I would be able to stay until the end of my tenancy. Which I pointed out is in 3 months, and to be honest if I'm still in Leicester in 3 months I won't want to move. For the sixth time in 18 months. Call me sad if you will but Stuart Kerrigan: Urban Nomad III Living under Thunderdome is not what I want as the title of my biographical movie.

I'm sure this "worst case" was an attempt to relieve my anxiety, but much like the payscale talk it made me more anxious. I'm sure at the end of the day I won't be kicked out, and I suspect it's going to be on the market for some time, but argh!

What is ironic is my dad is coming to down to help me fix up the flat a little bit and help me out with some odd jobs I've been meaning to do for months. Upon telling him this and how it was another case of not worrying but the vague possibility of badness happening again I received not one but two phonecalls from my mother at work who was convinced the Barkers fellow was some con man and that I was in fact handing over the keys to my flat to a perfect stranger, when it truth I told him to go through the letting agency if he wanted in Casa Stu.

This call was on the office landline on the number she's only supposed to use for emergencies. Where you can't walk outside, find an empty corridor and proceed to be shouted at by a panicky woman whose voice can be heard two desks away.

Argh - what a day!

Mothers, landlords and employers. They all bring you poor mental health. Unlike Mister Flibble.