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April 17, 2006
Housemates, Inc.
I’m impersonating a ghost. Or rather, lurking in the bedroom, to be specific, and I seem to be waiting for the last of the housemates to go to bed so I can creep down for a cigarette and some tea. And reset the wireless router so that I can bloody get online.
I’d originally planned to write this yesterday, or maybe the day before, but couldn’t justify bringing a laptop with minimal memory to Cambridge; typically, the original idea’s become a bit fuzzy.
Meet the housemates: Andrea, part-Argentinian, part-Canadian, raised in Argentina and Shaftesbury. Currently fulfilling her lifelong ambition to be a Runner. She’s 24 with moderately scary Alpha Female and Homemaker instincts. Trevor (Zimbabwean), who I often refer to as Alpha Geek – primarily because, out of the geeks in the house, he’s supposedly the one in charge. He’s mostly tense and overly serious, but has his moments of silliness, usually with his bum sticking way out. His girlfriend is Jenny (German), a Qantas airline stewardess, which means she’s away for about three days at a time, and back for three days, which she mostly spends sleeping or arguing with Trevor. I like her a lot. Max, South African (by way of Italy), is the next geek – except I think he’s not – is currently away with his Woman, who’s come to visit him for a fortnight. Max is generally laidback and mellow, and entertaining most of the time – especially when he and Trevor are insulting each other in local slang, or whatever it is. Friend is the final geek – the eldest and rarely here, but gets teased a lot by the housemates when he is.
Generally, the house is smoothly-run. It’s in a part of London – suburban, I guess – where the front gardens are well-maintained, neighbours look non-threatening, and there’s parkland and the Grand Union Canal just behind the street. On the other hand, I only have a vague idea about where the nearest supermarket is, and I still have no idea where the nearest cashpoint is. On the other hand, I can easily point you to two Chinese takeaways, an Indian restaurant, a supposedly non-dodgy dodgy-looking pub, and an off-licence. And an osteopath.
Being used to relative – but affordable – squalor in Central London, and I suppose much the same in New Cross, the house is a pleasant surprise; the shower had been replaced the day before I arrived, but I have since alerted them (twice) to the fact that it mysteriously leaks. Five people (or rather, three people and two half-people) sharing a fridge was becoming ridiculous, so they bought another one off Ebay. The house is nice, in good condition, and it’s generally kept that way. The washing machine is regularly loaded then emptied, dishes washed then put away, things tidied away regularly – the kinds of things I wanted so badly from flatmates when I was in New Cross but never had. They also go to bed alarmingly early, although I far prefer it when they hit the wine and/or beer for hours, they’re great entertainment.
The arrangement seems to be that it’s a Trevor clique. Most of them lived together previously, a few blocks down the road, where two of the original ‘clique’ apparently still remain. Whether or not they actually lived here is in question; my understanding is that their not being here is the excuse for Andrea. Also in question is whether they would have been an improvement on her or not. (I’ve met the girlfriend once. Gagging her would probably have been the kindest of many things I was tempted to do). Possibly there was meant to be yet another South African, who was undecided between Northern Ireland and London, hence Friend being here, and now me. (A relative of Friend works with Trevor).
All the time I was in Guatemala, I was anxious to get a job so that I could get my own place, get settled, get started. I’d flatshared for quite long enough, and no longer held out the slightest hope that I’d find someone bearable to share with, much want to repeat the experience again with. Also, having lucked out with mostly-absent flatmates for a few years, followed by a couple who never went out or went offline (no network set up at the time), even living with my mother felt like one person too many at times.
I’d known before I arrived that there would be approximately five people in this house – something I was fiercely dreading. Returning to London was one ballpark; sharing with so many people was the thing I was actively not looking forward to, however.
Surprisingly, it turned out to be the one aspect of being back which was working out the best, quite quickly. It kind of feels like a modified version of being back in halls, except that there’s not as many people. There’s usually at least one person in the living room or the kitchen, usually some banter or conversation to join in on. (And in the living room, each of the guys and myself predictably have a laptop perched on each of our laps). I don’t know if it was them lot, or the tea I was trying out, ‘Bright Mood’, but one Sunday evening, when I was having one of my ‘bad days’, I gloomily joined them to watch Planet Earth, and was chatting and laughing away before the end. On St. Patrick’s Night, I was out with ex-colleagues and a friend, got home around 1am; they arrived soon after, with the three would-have-been housemates in tow, as well as large quantities of beer and other random bottles. Friend and I called it a night around 4.30am; when I came back downstairs around noon, Trevor was heading off for bed, and Andrea and Brian (the one in Northern Ireland) were increasingly horizontal in the living room.
The downside of the number of people, however, is when Friend and Jenny are away, and Max is off with his Woman, it’s down to just Trevor and Andrea – a combination which makes me instantly want to be absent. Or even, when it’s just Andrea (in the days before she was finally hired), or nobody at all. Though I prefer the nobody at all option to either of the other two.
As always, at first, it seems like there’s a large number of people, very different personalities, but always a certain amount of liveliness (and individual misery, to tell the truth) – until each person gets back to being busy with their own lives and is rarely around, and the novelty value wears off.
The main problem, however, is that I’m ‘just staying here.’ Although Friend had said on several occasions in the weeks leading up to my return that I could stay here (and that, no, I couldn’t have Andrea’s room), and repeated that when I pressed him to say that it was really okay if I did, he seems to have not discussed it a whole lot with his housemates. Trevor – who he gets on best with – seems to have known in advance, but I gather he only spoke with Andrea after I’d actually arrived.
The only real experience I’ve had of a chronic houseguest was years ago, when José, a friend from Guatemala (who’d let me stay with him a few years previously; I finally checked into a hotel when I was fed up of kitten shit on my sleeping bag, and being woken by kittens abseiling down me and/or my hair) decided to move to London, get a snazzy job, which would mean him renting my room while I slummed it in Hawaii for a few months.
At the time, I was sharing with a very good friend, Dan. José’s snazzy job never even made it to fiction, and, although his mother had given him £100, we found out quickly that there was ‘some problem with his card’, which meant he technically had no money at all. For about two months, Dan and I fed him, loaned him a mobile phone and kept him in cigarettes, had no time alone together, while José rarely moved away from the sofa – if he wasn’t watching TV, he was playing TV games. Finally I got him a job at a local pub (collecting glasses) through a colleague; unfortunately, it was a night job, which meant he was still glued to the sofa for most of the day and evening. One night, he headed out to one of the local pubs around midnight; Dan and I heaved a huge sigh of relief as the front door closed. He was back five minutes later – nobody was there. He finally managed to arrange some flatsitting; when we met up briefly about six months later for him to return my mobile phone (it wasn’t mine, but my brother’s, and he was back in the country), he was about to marry some friend’s girlfriend so that he could stay on in the country, and bring all his friends back to Guatemala for a holiday. Never heard from him since.
I’ve asked several times about contributing to rent and bills. I want to pay rent and bills. This ongoing insecurity about my living arrangements has turned me into a domestic freak – I always seem to be emptying the dishwasher, washing up, putting dishes away, sweeping and mopping the kitchen and bathrooms, vacuuming the hallway and living room (I draw the line at the stairs. I’m not their cleaner). I generally try to help out where I can, and be absent as much of the time as I can as well. Perhaps I should see the cost of going out several times a week as a variation on rent – it certainly seems to be adding up to around that!
Probably, the problem is Andrea. I try not to spend too much time thinking about her, so I’m not too sure what to actually say about her. I grumbled about her one night, and Friend just replied, ‘She’s young.’ Maybe she’s just very blonde, despite being a brunette. Early on, I spent a day and a half working on her laptop, during which time I glanced at her CV (I needed her email address to register something I was installing), but didn’t read enough of it to find out what she’s done so far. In return for all my hard work, she nicked my laptop’s power cable.
I would say that Andrea To Date is: lived in Argentina till she was 14. Worked in Barcelona for a short, unspecified length of time, but probably far shorter than the time she’s spent talking about it. Probably saw this house as a chance to assert herself as Alpha Female Among Incorrigible Geeks (apparently one of the first things she did was rearrange the living room) – and then a few days later, I turned up. I’m on the side of the Geeks. We have a dining room table. We don’t need another one. Apart from a tumble dryer which should be shot, the house is fine the way it is, and it was fine for the few months before she moved in, too. The new fridge is nice, but due to the somewhat strained atmosphere which seems to hover around me, I don’t think I’ll buy anything to put in there. The new fridge also seems to have made zero impact on Friend, who seems to be exclusively fed by family and McDonalds.
Nevertheless, as the newest (paying) resident of this house, she feels herself to be the most senior. Given that my job is near Waterloo, she has twice asked me if I’ll look for somewhere in the area. If she had ever actually been there, she’d know the answer would be a very loud No!!! Her main problem, however, seems to be an overall absence of a life. Until she started her new job (making teas and coffees, basically) a few weeks ago, she was basically housebound. Now her life seems to be this job and the house – her friends are virtual. She goes overboard, however, on bonding with the guys. As Trevor’s officially the One In Charge, her bonding with him makes me nervous. And she really resents me being here.
Last Tuesday, she asked me for the second time what my plans were for moving out. Friend was grouchy when I mentioned it a few hours later, then assured me the next evening I had nothing to worry about. Evening after that – I’d left the pub early to get back to the house at a reasonable hour – I found my laptops, and everything else I’d had in the living room – now dumped on the foot of the bed. Since then, I’ve either been out, or away. I’m finally back, after a few days, and it’s looking suspiciously like the encryption key for the wireless connection has been changed – and a neighbour is getting fed up of my using his or her wireless instead.
Friend was due back tonight. I texted him late last night to grouch about the current situation – given he’d reassured me to point any hostile housemates at him (when he’s around), but I’ve not heard anything back, nor actually seen him this evening. I need to blow my nose, make some more bloody echinacea tea, have a cigarette, then pour myself a very stiff drink.
Tomorrow can only be better.
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April 06, 2006
Oh, Go Away
I have now passed the four-week mark, and am feeling very grouchy. Also, thanks to an old back injury, I’m debating whether or not I’ll have to sleep on the floor or sitting upright.
Okay, so I’m feeling grouchy for, hmm, probably four reasons. One of them I won’t talk about; the other three are being stuck in a job working with morons who think they’re geniuses; I’m desperately trying to cut back on the sarcasm as, not only is this a permanent job (i.e. I’m stuck with them), but one of them (Gonzo) is my line manager. Two: just because I’ve been in a third world country for most of a year, and fairly oblivious for a while before then does not make me an idiot. Three: I may not be paying rent or bills – because I don’t get to have a long enough conversation with the friend I’m supposedly staying with (instead of substituting for) to discuss my chipping in – but I do do obscene quantities of housework – so would the housemates kindly get off my back about minor indiscretions, such as accidentally leaking cigarette smoke into the house, leaving the kitchen door open while the tumble dryer is screaming – it’s getting to the point where I’m starting to expect complete strangers to start picking on me.
For God’s sake – I’d forgotten that the main reason I quit yoga a few years ago was because the back pain was excruciating afterwards; even though I stretched for a while before going to bed last night, rolling over at 6ish this morning was possibly the most painful experience I’ve had since taking out my contacts with chile juice still on my fingers.
I’m also not feeling very chatty. I’ll leave it at this.
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April 03, 2006
Four Weeks
In ten hours, I’ll have been back in England for four weeks. It doesn’t seem possible.
I’ve spent this evening remembering my last day in Antigua, four sad weeks ago. I woke fairly early – made easier as I’d stopped freelance work as soon as I knew I was returning; made harder by my mother waking me anyway long before I was ready. The plan for the day was to go to her lawyer and bank, to give me power of attorney, get my legs waxed, hair cut, get my ring back from the shop, and pack. Not in that order, and including several stopoffs at bars.
My mother had been nagging me for days to pack. Finally it was my last evening, and there was no more wriggling out of it. She settled on the harp as a starting point; I tried explaining to her that packing the harp involves sorting through my clothes first, then deciding which items get to join the harp. Only when that’s been done, can the harp bag be wrapped with my 25 metres of bubble wrap, after which it goes into the sleeping bag which is nigh on impossible to carry. She was anxious to help, so she went to fetch the bubble wrap – and found that the two sheets of 12.5 metres each had been replaced with a large pile of very small pieces of bubble wrap.
I started packing for a bit, then she came in for a brief chat, which led to us chatting for a few hours, helped along by several drinks and cigarettes. Finally the rum became too much, and we both collapsed in bed.
How can that have been four whole weeks ago?! I’ve been in my job for three weeks now, just long enough to be on the other side of an excessively long Induction Period. They had planned a detailed induction schedule, with several training sessions and / or meetings per day, which was abandoned after the first few days. Although they found out I was picking it all up very quickly by looking over a colleague’s shoulder, they didn’t actually give me any work to do, so I’ve managed to spend the time finishing one of my websites. I ‘accidentally’ updated my CV on Jobserve, and posted my English CV on Monster; I’ve had two phone calls so far. Oh so tempting – and also oh so embarrassing.
I’m still in the shared house, although I wonder how much longer that’ll last. (No doubt they are too). We’ve had a couple of late-night parties, which have been excellent fun – and then disappointing when they’re not repeated. After the last one (which was wine-driven), I bought them three bottles of wine as a gift; they all seem to have stopped drinking since then. Just the odd beer now and then. Sometimes the housemates are friendly, sometimes they make me feel excluded and a bit unwanted. I obsessively clean the house, but given that most of the housemates are male, they don’t notice.
For the last few weeks, I’ve had a small pile of new books to read, so I’ve been happy to curl up in the bedroom reading for a few hours – till I hear the voices of several people, or I get guilt pangs about being antisocial - or generally make myself absent for other reasons. There’s a very nice 10 mile walk to Richmond (and back) along the Grand Union Canal Path and the Thames Path; it would be nicer still if I could learn that in England, it rains whenever it wants to. Sunday before last, it just drizzled most of the time, which I just ignored; last Sunday, it started pouring within minutes of me starting and rarely let up. By the time I reached Richmond, Richmond Park was now Richmond Lake, and the rain had turned into hailstones. It’s also a 10 mile walk in the opposite direction towards Greenford, but I’ve gone off that one since reading about a murder on the Path over there.
I suppose I’m more used to being back, now. That may be because I try to avoid unfamiliar places and – to a large extent – people. If I’m talking to a complete stranger, the chances are higher now than a week or two ago, but there’s still no guarantee I’ll manage recognisable English. It’s annoying that people can tell my state of mind by how high my voice is; then again, it’s handy that generally people (unless they read this) don’t know that. Unfamiliar places just tend to leave me wide-eyed and slightly incoherent – like yesterday’s yoga lesson, for example. Sometimes I look at the cars parked along the street, or driving past, and marvel at the condition of them all – probably only about 15% (if that) of cars in Guatemala would actually be classed as roadworthy.
Of course, when my world is this house, commute, work, gym, Eat Café for lunch, the health food shop behind Waterloo for my herbal teas, a choice of two pubs after work, and my walking options being either to Richmond or to a friend’s local pub in Bank (via another friend’s office en route), it’s easy to shelter myself from any more overt evidence of where I am. I should probably explore more – return to my old flat, if only for a check-up, actually go to a supermarket – but I suspect that would exceed my current overwhelm limits. I know how ridiculous it is for me to be in such a chronic state of shock about being back, given how long I’ve lived here, and I should force myself to snap out of it; on the other hand, I want to cling to the Central American reactions, I’m not ready to lose them yet. Then again, on yet another hand, I’d love to simply hop on a plane back home, but given the current airfares, I’d definitely have to shed the harp – it’s charter or nothing.
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