While I wait for the police to respond to tonight’s noise complaint (it is almost 1:00 AM — this could easily go on all night; it has in the past, after all), let me share with you a few thoughts deriving from the past two months of living with the kids. I mean, undergrads.
The day before I left on my first research trip, I washed a single pair of trousers and nothing else. I explained to one of my flatmates that this was because I had spilled ice cream on them earlier in the day; owning few pairs of trousers, I would need them on my upcoming trip.
His response: ‘Something like that happened to me the other day. I was in the park in a daze, and I looked down, and I had burnt a hole in my T-shirt.’
Yes. This is the same thing precisely.
We have a small fruit fly problem at present. A few days ago, it was a large fruit fly problem. Not large fruit flies. A large problem. Solution provided by a flatmate — tape a card in front of the cupboard door behind which is the green bin that reads:
Based upon circumstantial evidence, there is a chance that the flatmate who posted said card was the same one who was slated for green bin removal.
I emptied and washed the green bin as well as the spot of floor beneath it in the cupboard.
That’s how the world works for grownups.
Flatmate thus suspected of sign-writing is going away to America in early July. Will be replaced by an illicit subletter. This subletter will come to meet everyone at some point. Why? To make sure that she is suitable. You know, clean.
Because this is an abode of clean people where I live. With the smoking in the kitchen and cigarette ash on the table beside the cutting board with the bits of dried-up apple and knife and the crumbs and detritus all over the floor and the dishes in the sink and the beer bottles littering the place and penis drawings on the walls and …
… the fruit flies.
Right. Clean. An important prerequisite for living in this flat.
I partied with them once. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. At some point after 1:00 AM, I headed for bed. I was assured that, despite my need to be awake by 7:45, I would get plenty of sleep.
Anyway. I think I called the cops too late. The drunk men are singing. This means that the party will be almost impossible to quiet down, and probably not worth the effort to the average police officer.
OH — did I tell you that I might move tomorrow?