He’s turned off the radiators, the coffee percolator, and all the lights.
Oiled the wooden countertop in the kitchen, in spite of those mules at IKEA saying the wood does not need oiling.
In this house all wooden worktops get an oiling every six months, whether it’s necessary or not.
Whatever some girlie in a yellow sweatshirt from the self-service warehouse has to say about it.
He stands in the living room of the two-story row house with the half-size attic at the back and stares out the window.
The forty-year-old beard-stubbled poser from the house across the street comes jogging past.
Anders is his name, apparently. A recent arrival, probably not lived here for more than four or five years at most.
Already he’s managed to wheedle his way onto the steering group of the Residents’ Association.
The snake. He thinks he owns the street. Moved in after his divorce, apparently, paid well over the market value.
Typical of these bastards, they come here and push up the property prices for honest people.
As if this was some sort of upper-class area. Also drives an Audi, Ove has noticed. He might have known.
Self-employed people and other idiots all drive Audis.
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