Field Study's Man in E11 came in from the mould/mold

Field Study's Man in E11 coughed, sneezed, choked, and wheezed, altogether gripped in a paroxysm of consumptive pseudo-debilitation. When he could articulate something intelligible, beyond a spluttering rendition of a demented Beat poem, he was very abusive. 

"Why the f****** hell did you f****** bring me f****** here you f******* berk?"

I protested. It seemed as if the field student was blaming me for the domestic conditions causing his malady. His debilitation took on a curious delirious quality as he started to jabber in a mysterious tongue that sent shivers up and down my spine. I hesitated as I started to try and reason with the field student, who sounded lost in a very strange stream of consciousness, as he babbled, in between his paroxysms; a cut up rendition of a Wikipedia paragraph on the health effects of mold. 

I am aware, from bitter experience, that Field Studies Man in E11 is not an easy person to communicate with at the best of times; in fact  fiction he seems to enjoy a certain contrariness; in being difficult to communicate with. He calls himself, 'a contrarian'. I realized any statement I made in my defense would be ridiculed and dismissed by the field student for even the slightest slip of the tongue and inconsistency - the sort of foibles we might accept in everyday chit chat - but which are wholly unacceptable to the rigors of the field student's inquisitorial pomposity. While he was (again) racked in the mold induced crepitations of our room, Base Camp Beere, I decided to compose, in writing, a list of 'what would you do if ..... ?' questions.

The list of questions would also outline how I perceive my lodgings here in E11. By composing the list with great care, doing so in such ways as to try and enjoy the pernickety cross examinations of the field student, I got lost in a maze of dilemma(s) - a quandary if ever there was one. 

I reached for the dictionary to corroborate every word; e.g. should it be 'and' or 'plus'? I feared boring the field student with my limited vocabulary, so reached for a thesaurus to find alternatives; what could I use instead of 'I'? I (damn!) barely got beyond the first 'I' - the very first word of my appeal! 

The absence of hard fact, incontrovertible evidence, the woolliness of my scribbled testimony, made for an unforgivably poor address. Should my list be accompanied by a full bibliography of learned texts, with insightful and complex treatises, on the nature and meaning of home? 

Ethical dimensions merged mind-bendingly with those of the moral. I cannot be confused about these, I shuddered. Mental and psychological factors intertwined in an uneasy state of consciousness as, from somewhere, I heard a voice mock with condescending tones, 'you are only thinking what you think you should think'. 

The state of energy which prompted me to appease my very own alter ego diminished into a state of stasis, entropy - oh God, where's the thesaurus, the dictionary?!!! I don't understand what's going on in here!

I stared blankly at the mold peppered wall, feeling as low and dejected, abject even, as an imagined out-take, as cutting room detritus, from Roman Polanski's, 'Repulsion'. This is, and I am, the mold/mould scene that never really existed so could not be included in that psycho flick. For a very brief moment, in the midst of a vision of myriad spores emanating from the walls, entering me, eating me from the inside, I thought the imaginary 'friend' may have a point - the point being that I am just a f****** berk. I've only got myself to blame. I shall just sit here until I am entirely gone to mold, resigned to being a victim - gone and as forgettable as ever I thought I would be.

There is mold growing under the windows (and elsewhere in the room). I can't open/close the window very easily because the frames swell in the rain. There is very little ventilation in the room. On the cooler evenings and nights there is a lot of condensation and humidity in the room. I have cleaned the mold away several times using bleach. I've worn a mask, however each time I cleaned I got a severe cough and was unable to sleep and had crunching headaches. The mould grew back soon enough. I didn't know the room was like this when I moved in, in August. I should have seen the signs - the stained fabric blinds (up when I visited) - from previous occupation. The locked window didn't have a key when I moved in. 'Oh it has never been opened in the 10 years I've lived here,' he, the landlord, said. I quite easily removed the old window catch and replaced it at my own expense - to restore the window to a working/open-able facility; that is, while it does not rain and the unpainted window frames do not swell in the rain. 

I moved in, in August, mentioned the sticky window in October, put the problem to him, his landlordship, in writing in November, and here in January I/we still have a window which requires brute force to open/close - so much force I dare not now try and open it, and be one of those typical reprobate vandalising tenants landlords seem so fond of complaining about. So I am getting more mouldy and a sense of being sub-human, a scum bag homeless peasant, existing only for the convenience of a land lord - the property owner - this castle, his manor. 

My breath, my living human being is a part-cause of the mould. I breath spores in, I breath them out. The spreading spores, a cancerous hate - for this room, for me, myself, he and I - alternates with each breath. More often it feels as if it is for me (I) because this is his home and his right, his privacy within which I have to fit conveniently. I have no rights. I am just a whimsy. He can just move on if it's so bad, the twit, I imagine him thinking. I'm nearly 50. I've been living in rented accommodation, on a low income, for nearly 30 years. I've lived in poorly maintained places, owned by negligent landlords (and ladies), before. I should have seen this. It should have been obvious to someone with so much housing 'experience' but, or should I say, however (?), the landlord of this mouldering abode, this fungal psycho-hypogeum, is also someone I work with. We work for the same company. It didn't occur to me that a work colleague would do this - rent a room (to another colleague) which is not entirely fit for habitation. He asked at work if anyone was looking for a room. Is this predatory 'landlording'? How naive was I? Perhaps the field student is right to blame me.

'How's about bloody that then?' I yodelled jokily to the field student as he began another flimsy and spluttering pastiche of a beat poem. 

certain spirochetes, and certain fungi, 

that cause disease.

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