The Rude Boy

The Rude Boy is all messed up at the moment. Well more messed up than usual. You see he runs off impulse. We wants and wants and wants. And will take any want and replace it with the next. His desires are comical to the rest of us, but so basic, almost primitive.

Until recently he had three girlfriends. Not that I believe he was doing anything wrong by any of them. He never commited, he never promised them anything. But as they cut him loose, one by one, he becomes depressed. He reaches for a bottle, or a big night out, or even just two curry dinners. Really.

He is a creature of consumption, on every basic level. He tells us his stories of inhumane consumption of alcohol, of copious amounts of food, of hours of viagra assisted drugs (I must say at this point he doesn't need it- it just ups the anti).

So today The Rude Boy came back from work early, too early. He walked out, in a hung over rage, over an accusation of racism. As messy as he is we all know he wouldn't stoop so low. Anyway, that was the tipping point and left to come home. Broken, yet still loud and finishing off the beers form our party last weekend.

Then came the tales. The night before he had slept on a bus, over jumped our stop by more than an hour, and then tried to find his way home, his drinking buddy vanished to the night. The only thing he could tell us was that he ate a block of cheese on the way back. Impressive and yet horrific.

And now? It's late and The Rude Boy has finally passed out. He sleeps deeply, disturbing the rest of us with his snores. Yet he is achieving another feat of the impressive and repetitive destructive. He is balancing a glass of red wine in his fist, lent against his leg, and he is out cold. He hasn't split a drop.

And when the door bell rang just now, for more take out, he jolted a little, and then resumed his drinking, as if he had only paused that was for a moment, not for fifteen minutes.

The Kooky Kiwi

The Kooky Kiwi resigned today. It was a heartbreaking event for her. She has been working in the maternity ward of a hospital for a few months, entering patients at reception. To me that job sounds terrible, entering people to the NHS system to begin a life that will always be revolving around that system? No thanks. But for her it was emotional, entertaining and inspiring. Now she wants to be a mid wife... and she can have it!

She regaled us with stories of the days "the babies came out all together" and how she would work so hard to get them room, ad some of them would deliver in converted toilets. Not exactly inspiring on the give birth front. My favorite stories come from the descriptions of the screams, some roller coaster yelps, some intense dark yelps, some just primal invoking memories. Kooky Kiwi will sit in our lounge and imitate every last urge she has heard, laughing and tearing up over each of those women in pain.

Strange.

Today she is forlorn. She has rolled over to London's greatest weapon, money. She doesn't want to leave them, the midwives and their grumblings about working for the government, the doctors and their tales of their home countries (never the U.K) even the mothers and their families and their brand new tiny offspring. But it's money. There isn't enough. The cut from the recruitment agency coupled with the government wage has her eating boiled potatoes and eggs and still not able to afford lunch. It ain't right, but it is real.

So now she is at home, eating all the chocolates they gave her, laid back and mournful. We have played American Beauty for her, hoping to uplift her spirits with the comparative demise of others lives, fictitious lives, but hey it might work.

Or not. After all she is giving into the devil. That's what I call it. Commonly referred to as hospitality. But not just that... waitressing. I have been one before. Smile. Take the order. Smile. Get abuse from the head chef. Smile. Take it from the customer that is supposedly allergic to cheese. Smile. Smile. Smile. Pick up your one pound tip and start again.

No wonder she is eating all the chocolates.

Film Freak's Fury

I share my room with Film Freak, so I'm bound to be bias on his description. It's a fact I wont sugar coat for my readers, just be aware...

He lives for film, it's his job, his passion and his dream basis, literally. I mean the guy wakes up talking about the latest project, and drifts into sleep mumbling about it, still talking when his consciousness has left him.

I love his passion, it's infectious. I have become a walking movie reference by default, like the Film for Dummies companion to his encyclopedic knowledge.

He is different to me. In this house I ride the wave of turmoil the house mates present, like a keen surfer. We are up, I'm fine, we're down, well I'll just duck my head. Film Freak doesn't work this way. He bubbles inside, foaming until someone twists his fizzy cap and the whole thing froths and sprays over the hapless trigger. It isn't often, but it is impressive when it happens. And secretly I admire his honesty, knowing all that comes of it is grief.

This weekend gone created such a trigger. He woke early, keen as mustard for the shoot he had arranged in the house. Plenty to do, props and checks and set ups. He wanders bleary eyed into the lounge, and lets the cap fly.

Bottles, ashtrays,half empty bags of crisps, papers, and strangely four or more Mexican sombreros. All churned and turned and spilled about. The place is post party, and sure it's a Saturday, but it's THE Saturday for filming.

It kicks off quickly, it's no one's fault and no one takes the guilt ridden bait, so Film Freak is cleaning quickly, throwing bottles together into the recycling bag like the sound can purge the action. I skirt around the anger, skipping side o side, collecting quietly, ignoring the flurry of text messages. One needs to grow up, another needs to lick his own nether regions, another uses every profanity to explain away his responsibility.

But then, just like a fizzing drink spent, he rests. Flat.

And by Sunday night, when the culprits slink by, he has cooled, and it's all over with male nods in each others direction. Singular words. A cold peace dissolving the tension, the television providing the ultimate distraction. No one cops to the blame, but Film Freak is satisfied by the hanging heads, the slight indication of shame.

And next week? It will be different, and yet the same...

The Ways of the Pants Man

The morning after Pants Man moved in I was sitting nursing my morning coffee. The door flew open and he appeared in tight white pants and nothing else to cover his frame. I was in shock, but quietly reasoning that he had yet to unpack and create an order for his boxes, so perhaps he was just making do and I was being a prude.

He went to the kitchen, fetched a rag and spray and began to clean the fingerprints from his door frame, chatting about the room and the plans he had for it, none of which I heard as all the while all I could do was look away and wonder.

He cleans in his pants?

Little did I know this was not a moment of desperation, this was the heralding of his ways. Each day he appears in his white pants, strolling about the house, undisturbed my our disturbance. He sits on the stairs in those pants and waits his turn for a shower, like a little boy awaiting a bath. Quiet and always smiling. it can be unnerving after a heavy night when you near trip over him trying to get to the kettle.
Don't think for one moment that we are those that whine in quiet and say nothing. Each of us will say to him, "Can you put some clothes on please?" to which the reply, over and over, is a snigger and a smile, and an unrelenting persistence in this form of exhibitionism.

However his quirks seem to run deeper than we could ever had imagined on the day he arrived to view the house. And now the pants thing pales in comparison to his latest oddity.

Just this weekend he had a friend come to stay. We thought little of it, until the morning after when the two of them appeared, both in their pants, from his room. There was no bed on the floor, just the double that it came with. Nothing about this would be unusual if he were gay. Which he isn't. And neither are his friends.

For some reason every guest he has stay, to date, has been male, and has slept in his bed with him. I shrug a little at this myself, so many people do things differently, but my other house mates are in perpetual wonder and discussion at this choice. We have two large couches, plenty of lounge space... and yet they toddle off together.

I believe Pants Man was sent to us to entertain us, and I believe he is doing a fine job so far.

Little Miss Cosmetic and the Wall

If the bathroom is covered in fake tan, leaving two ghostly feet outlined, if the front door slams, if all you can here is high pitched giggling... then you know Little Miss Cosmetic is in.

Young and happy and busy and somehow possessing of that youthful body where the only enlarged areas are the ones that give her flattering attention, she would naturally be my nemesis, if she weren't so non confrontational and down right sweet.

In part I relive my innocence through her, as I listen to tales of stumbling home at 3am through a dark park, or watch her blush at recalling tales from her latest Brit's abroad beach holiday for 9, or I simply marvel at the fact that I rarely see her eat much more than a bagel with peanut butter.

Her current stories are revolving around a recent catch, "Hot Maintenance Man".
This man, it seems, is definitely not her boyfriend although by now I think he just might be in all but name.

Speaking of names, he is foreign (well so am I, but he is not of English speaking decent) and has a name that just won't stick. This had each flatmate frantically whispering to each other each time he left a room, "What's his name again?" The whole thing was getting incredibly uncomfortable until we decided to put him on our wall.

Not in a pin him up and hurt him way... let me explain...

Living in a house where said walls haven't been painted since before the discovery of New Zealand, it becomes hard to respect the paint work, and so, in a little arch in the lounge we began to mark our heights.

Yes, we know we are all past the point of growth, but now it has become a place to mark out our guests, a primitive visitor book of you like. There are stickers and slander and silly references to how tall God is, but for the most part it helps us remember the first time we had that person visit.

So now Hot Maintenance Man has his name on the wall, so every time Little Miss Cosmetic comes home (with the man that isn't her boyfriend) all five of us stare at that marked out space before we can say hello.

He must think we are incredibly odd. I don't think he is wrong.

ONE YEAR ON...

I moved into this house a year ago, give or take a week of hazy memory.

Today there is one carton of semi-skimmed milk (3/4 full) one carton of soy light (1/4 full) one carton of soy regular (unopened) and a suspect half carton of regular in the fridge. How did it come to be this way?

To understand this you must first aim to understand the house and it's odd content.
Nestled in a quiet London street is a large abode, each brick threatening to succumb to gravity at any moment. A steal as far as rent, and therefore hospitable. Never mind the stairs creak as if they are rigged for a haunted house, never mind at least one appliance is always malfunctioning, never mind there are no light fittings only lamps, anything that is cheap in this city counts as livable.

Within it live a half a dozen, and I promise if three is a crowd then six is a multitude. Each character struggling to survive, to be heard in one of the biggest cities on earth, and pushing just to chose the channel on the television for just one night a week.

The line up of this mismatched place will be revealed day by day until you can get all six... and then know how lucky it is that we all haven't imposed restraining orders on each other yet...

So for today I best start with the author, which is me, and what I am. Just hit 30 and yes possibly a little too old for the house share thing, but I can't quite consider myself grown up enough for my own four walls and garden just yet. I left my much warmer country more than six years ago on a whim, moved all about Europe, and still haven't managed to swallow moving back. Perhaps it's the cost of a ticket? Unfortunately I am the anal cleaner in this ensemble... well it's unfortunate for me only... I am the one that likes plants and nice food and quickly gained the reputation as the peacekeeping entity. The real question is, how much longer do I want to keep the peace for?