Another post to make people glad they're not me
Housemates. Agh! I'm known for not doing very well at selecting housemates. In fact, I'm verging on legendary. For those not familiar with my previous housemate issues there is...
The Teaspoon Incident
A previous housemate was somewhat particular. He arranged his oven chips in a spiral on the baking tray before cooking them, measured his pasta and organised his life to a truly frightening degree. He almost never spoke to humans, although he loved the cats. The most amusing (for me) evidence of his eccentricity occurred following a party. People had fallen asleep or passed out all over the house and, upon waking, had decided that coffee was their only hope of salvation. They managed to avoid using any the mugs belonging to said housemate (who was notoriously funny about such things) but failed to correctly identify which were my teaspoons. Someone had used one of the forbidden teaspoons. Not only that, they'd taking it into my room in the mug. This was clearly unacceptable. He only had five left, not his usual six. Whatever was the poor boy to do? I was asleep in the spare room (and no use to anyone for a few hours) and there only other people left was a couple who were shagging in my bed. He decided that the only thing to do was to go and look for the spoon, before it was lost for all eternity. He throws open the bedroom door and scans the room. He doesn't even look at the startled couple on the futon almost directly beneath his feet. Finally, he spots the mug with a tell-tale spoon-handle peeking out the top. With a slightly disturbing "hum" he strides towards the spoon, stepping over the (now stationary) couple in the process. He grasps the spoon, flourishes it and stalks out of the room (again treading over those in the bed). At no point did he make eye-contact with those in the room or give any kind of acknowledgment of their presence. They just weren't as important as the teaspoon.
There is also...
Steve
Steve was the last housemate I managed to acquire. At first, he appeared to be a relatively normal, fairly clean, obedient boy. Given that I have to share space with someone, I thought this would pretty much do. To summarise how wrong I was, he turned out to be a kleptomaniac, pathological liar, coke addict with bad personal hygiene. He stole my spatulas and hid them under his pillow.
*Brief pause*
I have absolutely no interest in why he wanted to steal my spatulas and even less in why they ended up under his pillow, unless, of course, anyone can come up with something that isn't going to turn my stomach. Red wine stains on the carpet, old food-stuffs and a funny smell were all left behind when he ran away. He didn't pay rent and never actually told me he was moving out. He just never came back, leaving all his possessions, including bed linen and clothing, behind.
I think I had reasonable cause for my belief that the Steve Problem could not get any worse.
This weekend, kimkali and I just had to pack up the last items belonging to Steve and give them to my father to take away. We had to sort through them all as there were several items he'd stolen from myself and others which I wanted to make sure did not fall into my father's hands. We started with the suitcase.
The smell inside that suitcase had to experienced to be believed. I hope none of you ever truly believe it. There was something so generically nasty about the experience that we decided that rubber gloves were necessary, rather than optional. A brief search failed to uncover the rubber gloves that "must be around here somewhere". We gave up there but decided that at the very least we were going to use some sturdy carrier bags over our hands. Much giggling ensued, at least partly because, deep down, we felt that we were probably overreacting at least a little. I have never been so glad of a pair of carrier bags in my life.
The first item out of the suitcase was a scrunched-up leather jacket. It stank so badly I was nearly put off dead cow forever. This was followed by some tops and other bits and pieces of clothing. These were all quickly shoved into a large bag, with us still giggling over how nasty this was. Then came the pants. Year-old, unwashed boy-pants aren't a nice thing at the best of times. The first pair was hurriedly thrown in the bag but kimkali noticed some rather serious 'skid-marks' on the inside. The next pair were something else entirely, however. If these were skid marks then the boy had worked all of his nineteen years at Silverstone. This was not a little accident. To put it bluntly, he'd pooed his pants and then packed them into his suitcase.
For about five minutes, kimkali and I look at each other, trying to make sense of this. It's clear from the rest of the suitcase that this is not an isolated incident.
"..." said I
"agh" said She
"W-why" say I (my voice now shaky and uncertain)
"agh" says she
"He pooed himself!!!!" said I (no longer uncertain)
This continues until we decide that this just needs to be finished and the sooner we manage it, the better. There's still a certain amount of giggling but now it has a slightly hysterical edge to it. Every three or four garments one of us would come out with "I can't believe we're doing this" and we'd both sit, slightly shocked, for a moment or two before returning to the task with renewed desperation.
In truth, we probably only spent about 30 mins dealing with the pants. It certainly felt like longer. There were more boxes of clothing (including a final 'surprise' pair of pants sitting inside a soup bowl I'd been missing for some time) and other bits and pieces, all of which smelt terrible. Some of his CDs were mixed up with the Pants of Poo. Everything was contaminated. Finally, after about 3.5 hours, we were finished, except for the stuff behind the bed. This turned out to be some really rather nasty porn. Not spectacularly violent or especially imaginative. Just badly written, poorly punctuated, nasty-little-boy porn. In some ways, that was worse. It was nasty and grubby, rather than shocking or arousing.
At this point, the room was clean. We left thyme-scented candles and an oil burner with more thyme oil burning in there for several hours whilst we went and had a bath in a futile attempt to make ourselves feel clean again.
The room still smells a little funny and I don't think we'll get it to stay smelling nice for a few weeks yet. What's slightly surprising is that kimkali and I still feel like we had a good weekend. It's not that we think what we were doing was a fun thing to do, just that we had fun despite what we were having to put up with. Very odd.
I would also just like to point out now that if anyone ever said I was too harsh on Steve or felt that I was exaggerating how bad a housemate he was, I feel fully justified, vindicated and unclean.
The Teaspoon Incident
A previous housemate was somewhat particular. He arranged his oven chips in a spiral on the baking tray before cooking them, measured his pasta and organised his life to a truly frightening degree. He almost never spoke to humans, although he loved the cats. The most amusing (for me) evidence of his eccentricity occurred following a party. People had fallen asleep or passed out all over the house and, upon waking, had decided that coffee was their only hope of salvation. They managed to avoid using any the mugs belonging to said housemate (who was notoriously funny about such things) but failed to correctly identify which were my teaspoons. Someone had used one of the forbidden teaspoons. Not only that, they'd taking it into my room in the mug. This was clearly unacceptable. He only had five left, not his usual six. Whatever was the poor boy to do? I was asleep in the spare room (and no use to anyone for a few hours) and there only other people left was a couple who were shagging in my bed. He decided that the only thing to do was to go and look for the spoon, before it was lost for all eternity. He throws open the bedroom door and scans the room. He doesn't even look at the startled couple on the futon almost directly beneath his feet. Finally, he spots the mug with a tell-tale spoon-handle peeking out the top. With a slightly disturbing "hum" he strides towards the spoon, stepping over the (now stationary) couple in the process. He grasps the spoon, flourishes it and stalks out of the room (again treading over those in the bed). At no point did he make eye-contact with those in the room or give any kind of acknowledgment of their presence. They just weren't as important as the teaspoon.
There is also...
Steve
Steve was the last housemate I managed to acquire. At first, he appeared to be a relatively normal, fairly clean, obedient boy. Given that I have to share space with someone, I thought this would pretty much do. To summarise how wrong I was, he turned out to be a kleptomaniac, pathological liar, coke addict with bad personal hygiene. He stole my spatulas and hid them under his pillow.
*Brief pause*
I have absolutely no interest in why he wanted to steal my spatulas and even less in why they ended up under his pillow, unless, of course, anyone can come up with something that isn't going to turn my stomach. Red wine stains on the carpet, old food-stuffs and a funny smell were all left behind when he ran away. He didn't pay rent and never actually told me he was moving out. He just never came back, leaving all his possessions, including bed linen and clothing, behind.
I think I had reasonable cause for my belief that the Steve Problem could not get any worse.
This weekend, kimkali and I just had to pack up the last items belonging to Steve and give them to my father to take away. We had to sort through them all as there were several items he'd stolen from myself and others which I wanted to make sure did not fall into my father's hands. We started with the suitcase.
The smell inside that suitcase had to experienced to be believed. I hope none of you ever truly believe it. There was something so generically nasty about the experience that we decided that rubber gloves were necessary, rather than optional. A brief search failed to uncover the rubber gloves that "must be around here somewhere". We gave up there but decided that at the very least we were going to use some sturdy carrier bags over our hands. Much giggling ensued, at least partly because, deep down, we felt that we were probably overreacting at least a little. I have never been so glad of a pair of carrier bags in my life.
The first item out of the suitcase was a scrunched-up leather jacket. It stank so badly I was nearly put off dead cow forever. This was followed by some tops and other bits and pieces of clothing. These were all quickly shoved into a large bag, with us still giggling over how nasty this was. Then came the pants. Year-old, unwashed boy-pants aren't a nice thing at the best of times. The first pair was hurriedly thrown in the bag but kimkali noticed some rather serious 'skid-marks' on the inside. The next pair were something else entirely, however. If these were skid marks then the boy had worked all of his nineteen years at Silverstone. This was not a little accident. To put it bluntly, he'd pooed his pants and then packed them into his suitcase.
For about five minutes, kimkali and I look at each other, trying to make sense of this. It's clear from the rest of the suitcase that this is not an isolated incident.
"..." said I
"agh" said She
"W-why" say I (my voice now shaky and uncertain)
"agh" says she
"He pooed himself!!!!" said I (no longer uncertain)
This continues until we decide that this just needs to be finished and the sooner we manage it, the better. There's still a certain amount of giggling but now it has a slightly hysterical edge to it. Every three or four garments one of us would come out with "I can't believe we're doing this" and we'd both sit, slightly shocked, for a moment or two before returning to the task with renewed desperation.
In truth, we probably only spent about 30 mins dealing with the pants. It certainly felt like longer. There were more boxes of clothing (including a final 'surprise' pair of pants sitting inside a soup bowl I'd been missing for some time) and other bits and pieces, all of which smelt terrible. Some of his CDs were mixed up with the Pants of Poo. Everything was contaminated. Finally, after about 3.5 hours, we were finished, except for the stuff behind the bed. This turned out to be some really rather nasty porn. Not spectacularly violent or especially imaginative. Just badly written, poorly punctuated, nasty-little-boy porn. In some ways, that was worse. It was nasty and grubby, rather than shocking or arousing.
At this point, the room was clean. We left thyme-scented candles and an oil burner with more thyme oil burning in there for several hours whilst we went and had a bath in a futile attempt to make ourselves feel clean again.
The room still smells a little funny and I don't think we'll get it to stay smelling nice for a few weeks yet. What's slightly surprising is that kimkali and I still feel like we had a good weekend. It's not that we think what we were doing was a fun thing to do, just that we had fun despite what we were having to put up with. Very odd.
I would also just like to point out now that if anyone ever said I was too harsh on Steve or felt that I was exaggerating how bad a housemate he was, I feel fully justified, vindicated and unclean.