evil maniac landlord horror

We have moved without too many disasters, although moving day didn't begin well. Dave, in a sudden panic, started filling a Sainsbury's bag with spice jars, on the hob. 'Fuck, the bag's split!', he cried, and then, moments later, 'What's that smell of burning?' For he had inadvertently turned one of the hob rings on full, and orange plastic was busy melting all over it. Then he nearly had all the spices on the floor in his haste to get it all out of the way... In fact, he had conjured up a whole Norman Wisdom-style slapstick routine out of nothing in the space of three minutes.

The rest of the move went swimmingly. Not so the inspection. We had no problems at all with the landlord during the tenancy. 'We should help each other in this life', was his oft-expressed philosophy, and he was indeed helpful, while also careful to maintain a much-appreciated distance. The inspection, however, was carried out with ruthless precision, and ominous formality. I wouldn't have been surprised had he donned a special uniform for the event. Possibly including a monocle. As he shrieked: 'Look at that stain!' while indicating with a rigid finger an invisible mark on the carpet, it became increasingly apparent that this 'helpfulness' was a purely contractual phenomenon.

The new tenants have dogs, which makes his concern at the state of the carpet a bit, well, insane. I'm sure they will be fine, as long as they never leave.

As for the new place, it's fine. Well, the bathroom is a bit of a no-go area. Which is a bit awkward, as of course one does have to go.