I used to have the best lodger ever; stayed in her room, kept out of my way, very quiet, very tidy, I hardly knew she was there. In three years of her living in my flat, I saw her so infrequently that I would have struggled to pick her out of a police line up. Er, just to clarify, that was never necessary. If it had’ve been, it would certainly not equip her to fall into the ‘best lodger ever’ category.
Then she left.
Soon after, a new lodger moved in and introduced a whole new world of lodgerness to me. A world where my flat is constantly alive with the sound of laundry devices.
I now live in Room 101. This is basically all the nuisance and irritation of living with a boyfriend, without the luxury of a bloke responsible for bin-taking out duties, shelf putting up duties and sink unblocking duties.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t actually dislike my new lodger, she twitters away like a chirpy bird making inane conversation too early in the morning but she seems like a pleasant person. I am just finding living with her challenging. After my last nondescript lodger, my new lodger’s presence is just so very unavoidable. I know that I probably sound like a precious bitch but, well, I make no apologies for that. Maybe I am a precious bitch. Her habits just rub me up the wrong way:
She drapes her washing around the flat; I woke up on Christmas eve to find some pants and a nightie hanging untidily in my lounge between my fairy lights and my grandmother’s Christmas card. I’m sorry that you had to be party to that, Nan.
She rearranges my stuff; my cheese grater lives in the cutlery drawer, that’s where it’s always lived and that’s where I look for it when I need to grate cheese. If I have an urgent cheese grating situation, I don’t want to have to spend 10 minutes searching for it before finding it tucked behind the colander in the saucepan cupboard.
She uses the washing machine and tumble drier constantly. I feel as thought I live in a launderette. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dot Cotton popped up from behind my kitchen cupboards to ask me if I want a service wash. Last weekend Brad and I were woken up to the sound of my tumble drier grumbling away at 6.50am on a Sunday morning. 6.50am?! She’s lucky that I didn’t storm out of bed in my next to nothings and tumble dry her. Well, I would have done maybe if it wasn’t so bloody early. Christmas week, she did 5 washes in 7 days. I can’t even work out how one person can have enough stuff to do that many washes. I’ve started worrying about her bladder control.
She puts stuff where I don’t want stuff. My bathroom is white with pink accessories and I’m really uptight about things matching. Just after she moved in, she brought a bright blue toilet brush and plonked it right in the middle of the bathroom. I swear to god, I nearly had an actual heart attack. I’ve been slowly kicking the brush towards the back of the toilet so that it can’t be seen by visitors but the problem is that I know it’s there and it’s a wonder that I can sleep knowing it is in my flat. I’m sweating just writing about it.
This leads me on to the fruit bowl. The hideous wooden monstrosity that has appeared on the side in my kitchen. It’s shaped like an apple and says ‘Lanzarote’ on the top. Classy. I think that I hate it more than I hate the blue toilet brush but, there’s nothing I can do about it. Ugly fruit bowl must stay…. unless…. I wonder if I can get it tucked behind the colander in the saucepan cupboard?