For the purposes of this blog, this account is fictional and any similarities to real characters, alive or dead is purely coincidence. (ahem) Yes, it’s told from a first perspective, but that’s neither here nor there. Yes, the characters do share names with my real life flat mates, I have just bought a new frying pan and the colloquialisms do suggest that this was pieced together from a Skype conversation with my girlfriend. Coincidence I tell you!
This is a short story, a parable if you will, highlighting an example of common conflicts likely encountered in a shared flat:
Earlier on, I made everyone, Ceri and Tom and myself (Darsh had already eaten) a fry up lunch; sausages, bacon, egg and fried bread. It took me about an hour and obviously it required that I use quite a lot of kitchen things. I finished and we went through to eat it in the lounge. Darsh comes through and starts having a go at me about not doing the washing up and tidying up after myself and I was like, “wtf? We just cooked it this minute and we wanted to eat it before it got cold”, (who does the washing up before they eat anyway??!) and he was like ok, whatever. So we finished, I did all the washing up, rinsed the pan (as you do with a frying pan unless you want everything you wash it with to go black) and missed two things: the flat turny thing (that you flip eggs with) and a fork, (a case of finishing and then realising and thinking, ‘oh ffs, its two tiny things, I’ll do them later’) so I left them in the pan.
Just now, when I’m taking a shit on the loo (!) Darsh starts shouting at me through the door going, “Mate, given your rant at me earlier about how you always tidy up I thought you’d at least have bothered with tidying the kitchen from earlier” so I was like, “What are you talking about? Can I have some privacy, I’m on the dumper”. He’s like, “you need to fucking grow up…” blah blah “common decency…” blah blah, and so I was like, “seriously, if we’re talking about decency, do you not think I could have some privacy while I’m on the toilet, and in all of twenty seconds we could continue this conversation?” (Handled pretty deftly huh, I thought so too…)
So, I hear him storm off and I psych myself up and leave the bog (adrenaline pounding – I’ve always had an overzealous adrenal gland). Then I come out of the loo, and before I’ve even reached the kitchen door, he’s around it and coming at me like some feisty animal. He starts pointing, nay, prodding his finger into my chest, and then stepping forward to push me back (he has to step forward because I’m not close enough to actually be in a threatening vicinity). I politely ask him to stop being hostile. I probably sound like a ho dickhead when I ask these things, but I figure it’s better to be condescendingly polite than raging and rude. He tells me to stop being so aggressive (ha! the irony) and I point out that I’m not becoming physical. So before I can get another word out he says, “Fine! If you’re going to be like that, you’re not using my stuff. Just don’t use my stuff.” “What stuff?”, I ask, “My frying pan”, he says. “Right. Ok, I’ll get my own frying pan and we’re sorted”. He backtracks, “Look Ben, I’m ok with you using my stuff but -“
I can’t be fucked with buts – I don’t like big ‘buts’ and I can’t deny – so I cut him off:
“It’s fine mate. I’ll get my own frying pan and I won’t use yours. But I don’t want to see a crumb from you, Nick.” I use his first name, subtle disrespect, he doesn’t deserve to gain the high awareness and enlightenment that the title Darsh apparently befits upon him, not in this argument anyway. “But -” he says again, “No, I’m serious, if it’ll solve our problems, I’ll just get my own pan and we’re sorted right?” I’m conclusive. We’re definitely sorted now. “Fine.” “Good.” “Ok then.” I don’t know why people always agree so much after a debate, it makes no sense. Maybe it’s just a last ditch attempt by each to have the last word. Instead it makes you both sound like you’re trading synonyms. And with that, I went next door to Ceri and G, and he returned to the kitchen. Seriously though, after last weeks pile of washing up in the kitchen, he’d better be clean or I’m not letting him get away with further hypocrisy. I’m going to be a fucking Kitchen inspector from now on. Hear endeth my tale of woe.
It should be noted, just in case for some reason you are under the impression that despite my protestations, this did really happen, hypothetically, if it continued, Darsh would of course apologise and we’d get along happy as larry. (Not that I know who Larry is, or why the fuck he’s so happy. Maybe I should get in touch…)