I perfectly understand that it's the rule ingrained so deep into the matter of universe that nothing can be done with it but it's no consolation that the landladies are mean arseholes. Or only mean or only arseholes, mine being a nice sweet arsehole landlady.
It appears that in the morning, she went to a fish market or some place where she got raw fish, she fixed it for lunch and happily left the uncooked bits in the trash on the balcony. (I think there's something Southerner about leaving the trash on the balcony because the only other people whom I noticed doing it were my Greek flatmates, be the earth heavy upon them when their time comes. But I may be wrong and pigs are present about anywhere.) Now, I totally wouldn't mind leaving the trash on the balcony if the very same balcony wasn't the balcony where the French window from my room opens. All day long, I was sniffing fish trash which later in the afternoon turned into fish trash on which sun is shining.
I also fail to understand why the landlady cooks half a portion of something, eats half of that and then leaves the rest on the plate, covering it with a pot lid, saucepan or another plate, leaving a few such installations around. Isn't it easier, when she cooks every bit from the fresh, to cook that minute amount she'd eat anyway? I opt for making a full pot of whatever and eat it for three days, not nice but practical.
No, I want to be at home. There or the other there, I don't care. At parents', there's a well-equipped kitchen so I can make me a chocolate cake although I can't possibly dye fabrics there, in my place, I can make whatever mess I fancy. No fish remains, no constant washing of things at the kitchen balcony and no damn annoying people around all the time. It's not only the landlady, this house is made of painted paper or something similar so I hear all the sounds from the stairwell, the elevator and every neighbours' breath. They have three daughters, I suspect that the youngest is around 16, and lots of social life. And they start a dishwasher at eight a. m. sharp, which is plainly cruel, I the hell sleep at eight.
The most important thing is that I'll have my own cat at home when I'm there. (Can't wait for the exquisite feeling of dying of asphyxation at 3 a. m. when dearie insist on sleeping on my head and my allergy insists on existing.)
No, I'm being snarky and mean.
I've been to another of the little museums today, Casa Siviero. Little local museums have a certain charm to me, and I wonder whether someone will set up my house as one after I die. I'd better throw away my things in advance.