Step away from the fridge
DISCLAIMER: Because XXXXX's girlfriends, parents and clients of his rentboy service keep looking at this blog and assuming it's a verbatim documentary account of his life, I've had to edit out the bit where I talk about him XXXXXXXX all manner of XXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXXXX and being XXXX XXXXXXXXX, even though it's all XXXX. In fact I could have told you about the time he XXXXXX a XXXX who had completely XXXXXX XXX on a XXXX, which is technically XXXX. Lucky I didn't.
I like living in a shared flat. I like the cheapness. I like having friends to hang out with when I get home in the evening. I like how it's environmentally friendly. I like how I can block the toilet with a big dump, and nobody can really say if it was me or Emma.
I don't even mind that my milk and olive oil get used. It's all part of the give and take of communal living, even if as the only registered card carrying yuppie in the flat, I give organic extra virgin first pressing picual olive oil, and take industrially produced hydrogenated Bernard Matthews turkey milk. I don't mind. It doesn't bother me.
What does bother me is when someone blatantly ransacks my shelf in the fridge without even leaving a note saying sorry, or texting me to tell me I might want to pick up some food on the way home as they've eaten mine. Last night I got home and pretty much everything on my shelf had been fingered:
Parma ham - half the pack gone.
Flat mushrooms - half of one gone (they're BIG!).
Cheese - an insolent morsel left.
Orange juice - opened.
Humus - been tampered with. Thie really pisses me off as not only is it posh man's humus, with pine nuts and everything, but the scooping implement used appears to be a finger! Given that XXXXX XXXXX all manner of XXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXX, sticking his XXXX-raddled fingers in the humus kind of ruins it for other people. I might be hungry, but not hungry enough to risk getting XXXXX in my XXXXX.
I thought this wouldn't happen any more. Last year, XXXXX came home drunk and demolished half a free range, corn fed chicken that I had lovingly roasted and left in the fridge. I got home from the gym the next day, absolutely starving. I cooked up some rice and veg to go with the chicken. I got the chicken out, pulled off the foil…and was confronted by a dirty carcass that had clearly been pulled apart by bare hands. I was incandescent with rage and inconsolable. When I confronted XXXXX, he looked bemused. "But I thought you'd just put it in the fridge for anyone to eat?". I nearly killed and ate XXXXX. There's a supermarket 3 minute's walk away now.
The irony is that he flies into a hysterical pissy pants rage if anyone touches his food. My flatmate Lizzie ate a few slices of his bread and he spent several days righteously whining to everyone in earshot and Miss Marpling the identity of the thief (I helped him - I believe that even food thieves shouldn't be victims of food thievery). Emma forgot to get electricity and he went teenager, slamming doors and refusing to speak to her. And when I nabbed a condom from his art installation in the bathroom he went nuclear, even though it was extra large so would've been no use to him.
Nah, only kidding, I love him to bits. But writing "My flatmate nabbed my food and I'm not really bothered" wouldn't be worth writing, would it?
I like living in a shared flat. I like the cheapness. I like having friends to hang out with when I get home in the evening. I like how it's environmentally friendly. I like how I can block the toilet with a big dump, and nobody can really say if it was me or Emma.
I don't even mind that my milk and olive oil get used. It's all part of the give and take of communal living, even if as the only registered card carrying yuppie in the flat, I give organic extra virgin first pressing picual olive oil, and take industrially produced hydrogenated Bernard Matthews turkey milk. I don't mind. It doesn't bother me.
What does bother me is when someone blatantly ransacks my shelf in the fridge without even leaving a note saying sorry, or texting me to tell me I might want to pick up some food on the way home as they've eaten mine. Last night I got home and pretty much everything on my shelf had been fingered:
I thought this wouldn't happen any more. Last year, XXXXX came home drunk and demolished half a free range, corn fed chicken that I had lovingly roasted and left in the fridge. I got home from the gym the next day, absolutely starving. I cooked up some rice and veg to go with the chicken. I got the chicken out, pulled off the foil…and was confronted by a dirty carcass that had clearly been pulled apart by bare hands. I was incandescent with rage and inconsolable. When I confronted XXXXX, he looked bemused. "But I thought you'd just put it in the fridge for anyone to eat?". I nearly killed and ate XXXXX. There's a supermarket 3 minute's walk away now.
The irony is that he flies into a hysterical pissy pants rage if anyone touches his food. My flatmate Lizzie ate a few slices of his bread and he spent several days righteously whining to everyone in earshot and Miss Marpling the identity of the thief (I helped him - I believe that even food thieves shouldn't be victims of food thievery). Emma forgot to get electricity and he went teenager, slamming doors and refusing to speak to her. And when I nabbed a condom from his art installation in the bathroom he went nuclear, even though it was extra large so would've been no use to him.
Nah, only kidding, I love him to bits. But writing "My flatmate nabbed my food and I'm not really bothered" wouldn't be worth writing, would it?
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