How to induce a heart-attack in an otherwise fit and healthy girl

I had the shock of my life yesterday*.

As I now live a 10-minute walk from work, I quite often walk home at lunchtime because it's cheaper and, if I time it right, I can catch a sneaky
Neighbours or Scrubs episode.

It was a fairly busy day at work, so my plan was to eat my lunch, grab my gym stuff so I could go straight there at the end of the day, then head back to the office.

My mind was elsewhere while I opened the mailbox (nothing interesting, sadly) and I absent-mindedly noted that the front door was wide open - not usual at that hour of the day, but not entirely unheard of in a building housing three separate flats.

But coming into the hallway, I realised the front door to my flat was ajar and my heart started pounding. Rushing towards it, I opened the door, expecting to be greeted by the sight of a devastated flat with my lovely new printer/scanner/photocopier all stolen.

What I actually saw was worse. I'm ashamed to say my reaction, rather than a string of expletives, was a more prosaic (and Americanised) "Wow!" Basically, all the plaster had been ripped off two of my bedroom walls, the furniture moved, and two highly disreputable-looking men wondering around drinking tea from MY cups.

Next thing I noticed was the sound of Will Young blaring from a stereo (not mine, some portable thing they had brought with them), my cat Missy (who currently does not go outside after I wrote a story about a dog being found in town with its throat cut) wandering around looking very uncomfortable and all the windows wide open.

It transpired these were the "contractors" my landlord had employed to come and deal with my damp problem. Except the last I heard about it, they were just having a look and were going to tell me what and when was going to be done. And my understanding is that rental property or no, they had no right to be there without my sayso.

I was completely taken aback - and in need of my gym clothes - so I didn't really know quite how to respond. Plus, these men had to have been given a key by someone who should have called me - they were presumably just doing their job and it is a little unfair to shoot the messenger. So I just asked a couple of quick questions, then ferreted around for my clothes, which were all underneath dust sheets, trying not to make it too obvious I was waving my sports bra around.

They assured me they were on a teabreak for a while if I wanted to eat my dinner (umm, where?) but after extracting a solemn vow from the older and slightly less disreputable man to ensure Missy was shut in safely before they left, I left.

I even managed to keep my cool during a phone call to my estate agent (he calls himself a property manager but this was pretty poor damn management if you ask me) where I expressed my extreme displeasure and he claimed he didn't know about it until they turned up at the office seeking the key. Yeah, but he could still have called me as soon as he knew.
I think I may actually exercise my right to be bloody angry and once in possession of all the facts, draft a letter outlining my concerns. When I got back they had done a fairly good job of clearing up but there was still an exposed, plasterless wall (it actually looked quite nice, but that's beside the point). Lord only knows what I'll find after another day of it. I still don't really know what they're doing, whether they're just replastering or installing a damp course. In either case, can I carry on living there while it dries?

I kicked off my anger at the promised Krav Maga self-defence class last night.

More on that story later.



*Actually, that's not true, the shock of my life was probably when my 17-year-old little sister rang me up to tell me she was pregnant. But this was pretty close.