Moving house

Dear Diary,

It is perhaps no coincidence, that soon after I reported that Stalin had sent Vladimir Putin a death threat, my application which I made for re-housing (some months ago, perhaps even last year it was so far back) got back to me. I will need to rummage around for some old paperwork, also get a passport, and some new letters, but needless to say the ball is well and truly rolling. I will also have to 'bid' on properties, but that's no problem. I would very much like to move to town. This will save me a oner (£100) on travelling costs, but will probably double the amount of rent I pay, so I will almost certainly be poorer, but that's okay too. The better one does in Britain, the poorer one becomes. That much is evident, crystal.

It would be enough to be safe, and not have to worry about being served a cup of polonium tea or touch a Novichok laced door handle. Seeing as I prefer books to people, that too would be marvellous: to enjoy some peace. Even so, man is a social creature, and I do sometimes quite enjoy the company of others (most especially artists, musicians and most of all: intellectuals), so living in town would also be nice. I should like to get a piano again, and play music sometimes, as that is a joy I have been missing for really rather a long time. I am most pleased about this possibility of moving. It will be nice to live in a space which is larger than a cupboard (the room I live in currently is not very spacious at all, to the point where I cannot cram any more books in). I should imagine that being in a place of my own would be rather pleasant indeed. Stalin shouts a lot (as does his closest relation - it appears to be a family thing). Even this very morning, once I had awoken with a shocking hangover, he began yelling at me about some frivolous 1990s TV show he was watching. He probably does not mean to shout, but he - like our last lodger, the Savage Viking - shouts the entire time he speaks to anyone (that is, except anyone in authority). There is a nice word I like in French, doucement, meaning 'softly, quietly, gently' which neither they, nor many of my "learned" work colleagues seem to know the meaning of. In any case, the possibility a little peace and quiet, and indeed some safety, is most welcome indeed.

Max.