About a year ago my treacherous ex-flatmate decided to ruthlessly divorce me and run off to a nice little bungalow in the suburbs with a boy. This meant that I needed to find a new place to live and promptly moved into the craziest house in the world (and not in a good way). Over the last year my regular social network status updates have left people agog with the mental OCDness of my new flathates and cries of "write a book!" or "write a blog!" (from those friends who obviously think I'm incapable of writing a full book).
So in the best tradition of US soap opera, here's a montage of the story so far...
The Dobster moves in to what appears to be a nice house with 2 normal women. Smiles and bottles of wine all round.
Cut to a slightly bemused face as the flathates explain that they have their own bathmats, washing up bowls, toilet paper and kitchen bins. 
2 weeks later... a "Flathates will..." cleaning rota appears on the fridge.
Then she is told that she may use the kitchen when she gets home, if no one else needs it (so big of them).
Cut to more random signs (including a rather soggy one on the shower cubicle).
And then finally...
A few weeks ago I realised the kettle had a fault. In my naivety (and several years of flat sharing experience), "I'll have to remember to chat to the others about clubbing together for new one" I thought. But no! This is not required. "But why" you shout at your screen?! Well, I shall tell you. Because they have BOUGHT THEIR OWN INDIVIDUAL KETTLES AND KEEP THEM ON A SHELF IN THE LIVING ROOM, OF COURSE.
Close your mouth, you're catching flies.
Regular updates will be forthcoming as long as I haven't suffocated them with their individual clothes pegs.
Pray for my sanity readers.
No comments:
Post a Comment