Two letters arrive: one detailing this month's stupefying bank charges, and another announcing the latest in the current sequence of dreaded "home visits".
I am at home, on the toilet in a bathroom that does not lock, when the lock on the front door turns unexpectedly. It's my landlord – a man apparently incapable of using the doorbell or knocking, and who has a history of shouting at me from the doorstep to tell me I must move out for not paying rent. Mercifully, I still keep the front entrance permanently chained.
When I ask who it is, he introduces himself by name. "It's Bill."
"Who's Bill?"
"Your landlord," he replies (I've always dealt with the letting agent).
Through the crack in the door, I show the letter as evidence the inspection was due for tomorrow. I had arranged for a friend to be present during that particular reconnaissance mission, but he reasons politely that he will only take a few minutes, and that he's driven a long way.
I want to be reasonable, so I let him in. Clearly uncomfortable, he almost jogs around the place, aware I am ostentatiously clutching my phone. Ignoring the cardboard boxes I am collecting in case I have to get out fast, he says nothing except a quiet: "Everything seems OK."
I wonder if he thought I was cultivating marijuana or had trashed the place. He avoids eye contact; he's making a point, which is awkward (for both of us) ,but I am just relieved he's behaving himself.
I keep the place clean and tidy, but Bill must have noticed mould spreading in the bathroom, and since he's already painted over it more than once he obviously doesn't care. He can see the boxes containing the chipped crockery he included in the inventory and insisted I kept. I know that whatever I do or say will either be twisted, or make him angry again, so I refrain from explaining I will be moving out as soon as possible, away from this unemployment blackspot.
I have visited the housing benefit office and asked how long it will take for payment to come through. They seem efficient and are helpful and polite, but clearly overwhelmed by the queues that greet them and make no guarantees about when the rent money will come through. I tell Bill I hope to be paying him soon. He ignores me, which strikes me as odd. So far neither he, the letting agents nor his legal advisors have provided formal notice to quit, or put anything in writing.
It's not as if in another life we would be friends, but I wish Bill would stop letting himself in without knocking. I also hope he maintains the moratorium on shouting abuse through the letterbox.
Right now, however, he can't wait to leave, and I wonder if he's ashamed of his recent showdown at the front door. Last week, I attended a meeting with my college careers advisor, and began to cry because thuggish strangers had been kicking at my door, whereas today Bill is all sweetness and civility. Even so, I experience an epiphany: I am terrified of him.
