Post-its from the poison pen
Image from passiveaggressivenotes.com
As passive aggressive notes go, this one was heavy on the aggressive with the only passive element being that it was left for me to find in the inside of a wardrobe rather than any issues being addressed directly to my face. In true passive aggressive style, I never mentioned the note directly but was sure to tell her that her shirt was washed, ironed and back in her wardrobe.
The passive aggressive notes don’t stop when you cease to do the communal living thing, though. Just this morning I received a group work email that was clearly having a go at the behaviour of one person but was thinly veiled as a polite instruction to all staff. How many of those have you received this week? “Dear All at Court It may have slipped someone’s mind but I believe that someone did promise to love and honour someone else and not chop their head off. I wouldn’t mention it but it seems that someone’s been a bit busy fornicating with another woman, and it may have slipped their mind- Ann B ;0) ” Or from the pen of Neville Chamberlain directed at Adolf Hitler: “ Would all dictators be reminded that they must not leave their troops in the Sudetenland. All persons leaving their armies in independent countries without permission will be dealt with severely. Thanks! :>) This post was inspired by my favourite new internet haunt http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/. It invites readers, Post Secret style, to send in all the passive aggressive notes that come their way. Great reading. Don’t ever miss a Misssive, subscribe!
“Would everyone please remember to put the milk back in the fridge as I find cottage cheese in my tea rather a turn off. Love you!”
Image from www.passiveagressivenotes.com
Queen of the Lizard People
Stalin misreads his invite to the Potsdam Conference:” I thought it said fancy dress!” laughed the dictator behind the deaths of 60 million
I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but I often mention that I am not allowed to go back to Germany.
I am not making this up.
Truth is I am awaiting news of the death of a 100+ year-old German woman that will make it safe for me to return. For it was this elderly harridan who banned me from returning to the country I spent a year of my University studies in.
Come with me, I’ll explain on the way…
About six weeks into my time in Cologne, my flatmate, Gerty, and I decided that we didn’t like the flat we were in and started to look for a new place. This decision was based in the fact that the last tram to our outskirty location left at 10.15 and we wanted to stay out drinking much later than that. We was students, y’see.
We found city central lodgings with an 83 year old woman who owned a substantial townhouse that I’m sure had belonged to a nice Jewish family at one point. She was letting out the little tartan wallpapered flatlet at the top of her house.
On arriving to view the flat we laughed at the name on the buzzer:
“FUKA”.
And, by God, did this little white haired minion of Satan not live up to her name.
Looking like a nice wee old dear on the outside with a shock of Jim Henson-made white hair, her outward appearance concealed an ugly truth. She was, in fact, a Soul Sucking Evil Lizard from Hell.
There was one clue to this hidden identity. For the entire year I lived there she wore a small flesh-coloured Band-Aid just under her right eye. This Band Aid clearly concealed the zip-fastener that she would unzip at night to regain her natural form, hanging her 4ft-5inch old-lady suit up in the wardrobe ’til morning when she would have to go into hiding once more.
Pleasant at first, she soon began to nurture an intense hatred of me and all I apparently stood for, and it wasn’t long before I made no attempt to stop myself calling the (non-English speaking) woman “Frau Fucker” squarely to her little wizened face.
I swear, and I have my Girl Guide salute aloft as I type this, so you KNOW it is true- I swear she had a photograph of her dead husband in uniform on the side board. No really- yes, THAT uniform. You know- the one Bryan Ferry said he liked.
Not for her the furtive sweeping under the carpet of those dark years. In my lowest points with Fuka, I almost paid for my Gran to fly over and bitch fight her. But given that the talks at the Potsdam Conference between the Allies had called on our nations to strive for the goals of the establishment of post-war order, the issuing of peace treaties, and the countering the effects of war, I felt it prudent to resist. My Gran felt the same, on reflection. So the fight never took place. Sadly.*
Instead, I had to put up with the woman listening for us passing her door EVERY time we came home, day or night. As we passed, she would open her door to check up on what we were doing and crucially who we were with. If we managed to scale the walls and silently sneak past her door like nimble cat burglars, she would spring into action as soon as she heard our key in our front door upstairs. For an 83 year old she had the hearing and reflexes of a young jaguar.
I can feel her shrill voice piercing my every cell even right now, as I remember her shouting up the stairs after me,
“Fraulein Mis-ssy!!!!”
Aside from the sound of “Dignity” by Deacon Blue, this sound will be on a loop in my cell in purgatory if ever I should spend any time in the Underworld.
Fuka would not allow us to get our own telephone installed. We were to receive (never make) calls on her household phone. This meant we couldn’t be openly hostile to her. We needed people to be able to contact us through her. And she wanted to spy on us.
She also had her own key to our flat which she would use pretty much every time we went out. I know because I would catch her at it.
My flatmate Gerty and I hated her. And she us. Until Gerty hit on a masterstroke that would make me the sole target for Fuka’s twisted wrath.
And given that I could write a bloody book on my year with Fuka The Fucker, I will leave that until Part Two.
* Because my Gran would have won.
