Thursday, March 08, 2018

Heart Attack Number 3 at Northcott.




On Monday 19th of February I handed in a complaint to the Housing Department that here on the 2nd of March has still not been dealt with. I asked for an appointment with my building’s client officer and did not get it. I rang in a notice to Maintenance, concerning the leakage of water from a flooded flat above me through my ceiling and into my living room. It dripped into my TV set which was on at the time and just as I tried to lift it away it blew up in my hands, so this is also an ongoing Health and Safety issue. Nobody has come yet to inspect the damage.


I have lived here for 28 years, am 68 years old, and have worked as a Palliative care nurse for much of my career, though I have also contributed to the city’s cultural life as an artist. I have suffered much while living here. My apartment at B02/50 is right on the common path through Northcott and everyone from the Estate plus many from Redfern and Waterloo walk right past my front door, I have no Security door/gate/wall, no concierge or guard ready to help. I’ve had many ne’er-do-wells come to my door at all times of the night and day on some nefarious agenda which I have to repel. I’ve had rocks thrown through my window and I was bashed at my front door about 10 years ago by a drug addict with an iron bar who was urinating against my front door and when I asked him to desist I was attacked in a rage, injured and the police had to be called.



I have seen many "jumper" suicides, one right at my doorstep jumping from the 4th floor and dying before my very eyes. I was in the middle of the Surry Hills massacre in 1990 when five residents were shot dead, again not far from my front door. I was here the day the police surrounded the building to catch the serial gay murderer on the third floor above me whose last victim had his head chopped off and thrown down the garbage chute.

I am surrounded by the neighbors from Hell. In the apartment next to me, whose  front door faces mine, is a ghastly poly-drug abuser who I call Cursula; heroin, methadone, Valium, Zanax, alcohol, are all imbibed by the truckload, unconscious in her manky bed for weeks, nothing can mollify her existential angst. She is an egregious hoarder, so much rubbish piled into her flat she can't receive her guests, they can't fit amid the putrid garbage so she entertains them by my front door, yakking, squabbling, yahooing till I have to put my head out the door and scream for them to "fuck off!"

Every day she parks more junk from the local dumpsters on my front porch and every day I cart it back to the dumpsters. She leaves a slimy mess behind her like some drunken slug, spilled coffee, cigarette butts, junk food packaging, empty booze bottles, cleaning it up daily has me exhausted, I just can't do it any more.

She's always at my door whining, asking for something,  even if it's just verbal abuse, calling through my door when I have guests so she can join in our conversations, she's driving me fucking bonkers till I hope some serial killer strangles her with a necktie like in Hitchcock's movie "Frenzy". I know this is a shocking incitement of violence towards a woman but it shows to what pathetic, psychotic depths I've sunk to think of such things, obviously not good for my mental health. And don't worry, every day I forgive her and we have a near cat and dog symbiotic relationship, she's the dog. 




For the last 4 years the whole building, and those back of us, have suffered from the disturbances of the guy living in flat LG02/50 above me. He verbally, violently abuses everyone constantly whenever he meets them in the grounds or stairway, especially old women who he loves to stand over. He slams his door many times a day, so hard the whole building shakes. He throws dirty tissues from his balcony. But worst of all he plays the same loud, bad music, from speakers placed at his windows to scare the demon birds away, over and over 24/7 so I myself am having temper tantrums all around the city because I’m a nervous wreck and sleep deprived, the very beginning of the first few notes of his music now induces nausea in me. 

The cops have been called fifty times but he acts all innocent like butter wouldn't melt in his pudgy arse, "Who me, I wouldn't do that." As soon as the cops go, up blares the bad music, "The Boys of Summer", Christmas carols or the American National Anthem.

Last week he left his taps running and flooded his flat so bad Maintenance had to come and pump it out, not before it seeped through the thick concrete of my ceiling. And my TV was ruined and I bet there will be no compensation. I’m a Pensioner, poor, and now I sit without even the comfort of a television. The creep often runs around the grounds with his shorts down around his knees and we all have to see his ugly arse, buttocks like two soggy suet puddings wobbling... uggghhh, it makes me sick thinking about it!



The Housing Department has a Duty of Care for all the residents, and I must particularly include myself, not just one rotten apple who is spoiling it for everyone. I’m 68 and I think he will give me my third heart attack. I want an appointment with my Client Officer to talk about a solution to my dilemma, if there is one. I've put in this complaint twice and, after three weeks, nobody has yet come to deal with the problem. 

I am sending this Statement of Living Conditions at Northcott Estate to every person who is the Manager at every level of the Housing Dept Bureaucracy, to the Ombudsman, to the Lord Mayor’s Office, to the Health Dept to see if someone will lend me succour. In the meantime I'm writing, painting, keeping the wolves from my door, and trying not to have another heart attack.