Now I know it’s been a long time since I have posted on here and I blame that almost entirely on the fact that I built an obstacle course of easels, paints and laundry blocking my desk and laptop from use for about two months. That, along with binge-watching Farscape and a renewed Harry Potter obsession of course.
I come to you now because the flocks from Facebook have called for an extension of my #housematesfromhell saga on social media that has brought such gems as:
Now before I go on, let me be clear that I do not actually have the housemates from hell. They don’t have all-night parties, bring hookers into the building or sell drugs (the drug dealing housemate moved out at least a year ago but he was a very middle class drug dealer who got all his drugs from working at the hospital) so it could be much worse. No, what my housemates are, is weird. Now as a weird, anti-social sort of person myself, that really is saying a lot.
Let’s go through the culprits.
- “Minnie Mouse” – named not really for anything she did, but more after the pyjamas I always seem to be wearing during our encounters. She started out as a nice, middle-aged Christian lady who always asked how my day was, knocked on my door constantly with an ancient laptop to be fixed or to tell me the precise minute my alarm went off in the morning. A woman who literally cannot change a lightbulb on her own, she often sits in her room in the pitch black humming to herself.
- “Fridge-wine” – the new housemate. Currently the first to be on my Death Note if a shinigami were to drop one from the sky as he somehow managed to cancel the wi-fi account in my name (thanks for that EE btw).
- “Power Ballad Dave” – the very nice if traditionally a little “right-winged” handyman who lives upstairs and brings the soundtrack to all our adventures. This is primarily a mix of 80s power ballads, the Steps “Gold: Greatest Hits” album and “I Will Survive”.
- Tom, the only sensible one of the lot of them who hides in his room playing video games. Sometimes you see the evidence of his existence the next morning with a discarded ready meal or Rustlers packet on the side. I envy his anonymity.
- One ominously empty room
It all started when the new guy moved in and I discovered this in the fridge one morning next to my milk:
You don’t need to be middle-class to shudder from the horror of that. This was followed by stuff like this…
…and coming home one day at midnight to find him squatting under the stairs blinking at me while clutching a very tiny towel around his waist.
If I disappear again, I’ve probably been eaten.