Karma. My dear friend, you always catch up on me. No bad deed goes unpunished, nothing goes unnoted. You bide your time; what was it, two, three years ago that I surreptitiously ejected the small highly-strung one from my palatial Chinese apartment? Did my crime accrue interest? Was that why my recent ejection from the palace of the little emperors was so spectacular?
There go my hopes of documenting the decline of the palace. Along with my hopes or living in the cheapest and most commitment-free place in London.
Life was continuing as normal, filth accumulated, drains got blocked. This time it was the one in the kitchen. I plungered, I poured down drain unblocking chemicals, I prodded and probed with a chopstick. Some drainage function was restored, before a couple of days of rice and oil being thrown into the sink well and truly stuffed it up. It was on a Saturday morning that I noticed that the washing machine had filled up with oily sink water. One of the boys ventured down to our room and said he thought the sink problem really needed dealing with, as yet again the dripping tap had filled it to the brim. I informed him that he should take a look at what was inside the washing machine if he thought that was bad. Intrigued, he returned upstairs, and his scream informed me that he’d just had a wave of oily water land on his feet.
A discussion of option ensued, the best of which was that we invite the real landlord round to have a look, as the roommate only then chose to say that she’s called once, offering to rent it directly rather than through the cash only, tell me there’s a problem and I’ll call someone for you and you’ll pay for it letting agent. The only catch was that we\d win little sympathy with the current squalid state, so the first item on the agenda was a major clear up.
At that point I had to go to work.
Returning from the epic treck back from distant north London at 8pm or so, I found that nothing had changed in the flat. The three ominously stinking full black bin liners continued to waft odeur cat-poo around. The room mate, the terribly busy room mate who claimed to spend every minute studying was still in the same chair, the same bed clothes, and still chatting online. Fire rose within me, but I held it in as I had been doing for the last week or more. I can’t stand entering arguments with irrational people, and with her the simplest comment, even one meant in kindness will single-handedly get worked into a screaming/crying fit. The more appealing option was to lock myself in the bathroom with my phone.
Two hours later I finally felt ready to emerge. What happened next was the start of the chain of events that landed me homeless.
Room mate saw I was stressed, and assumed it was because the boys hadn’t cleaned anything. In her bizarre little world, everything I do is associated to her by proxy, thus as long as I’m scrubbing and vacuuming, calling plumbers and purchasing stuff for the flat, she believes she has done it, and is under the assumption that all share her view. She was obviously trying to make an effort when she said that she wanted to cook for us tomorrow. Life may have been very different now had I accepted graciously, yet the fire within drove me to reply in the way I’d learned from her in her response to my offers.
I gave an offhand, distracted ‘ok’.
I got ready for bed, hoping that unconscious could save me from the filth and internal secret fury. But I was not the only one simmering. She interjected that if I really hated the mess and begrudged the boys so much, then I should just move out. Interesting change of tack from the person who tearfully told me some weeks previously that if I moved out, the financial burden of a full rent would force her back to the motherland.
Honesty is the best policy. Famous last words. ‘To be perfectly frank’ I informed her with a controlled calmness ‘I feel rather unhappy that you didn’t do any tidying while I was out at work’. Then, as I was airing my grievances, I continued, gesturing an the overflowing shelves and the several handbags hung on the door handle, and interfering with its function ‘also, the room has become a little uncomfortable as your possessions are occupying quite a lot of space, so I was wondering if you would mind arranging them’.
Boom. Scream scream rant rant. You, you, you, this and that. Poor little me so hard done by. So much work, so much stress. Nasty English girl never nice, so mean, never says thanks, and she should be thanking me because I’m so good, so kind, so considerate.
The disillusion continued with various other fictions designed to make me repent for my atrocious and unfair attack. I’d heard it all before, it was tiring, pointless, illogical. I just turned my attention back to my text messages and waited for her to scream herself out. When the volume decreased I went to sleep and she continued the familiar tap-tap-tap on the keyboard which had been the soundtrack of every night for the previous two months.
Two, maybe three hours had elapsed by the time I was woken by a cackle. I didn’t move, but the bluish light slipping under my eye-mask informed me that the computer was still going. I assumed she was chatting, or watching a comedy. The again, a mock-Santa ‘ho-ho-ho’. Then another, and another, each increasing in volume and pitch. Through gritted teeth I muttered ‘I know that’s intentional. Thanks a lot’. No reply, the laughs continued, beginning to tail off into sobs. I felt uneasy.
Within a minute, a banshee’s howl broke out. ‘MUM! LET ME COME HOME! LET ME COME HOME’, repeated at volumes unexpected to one so petite. She had called her mum through via the computer, and was subjecting the poor woman to the worst kind of postcard a mother could want from a child thousands of miles away, a live action breakdown. I raced out of the room, heart pounding. One of the boys was still up and I burst in on him. The others followed as they had been woken by the unearthly howls which still crescendoed, and presently became screams. Scream after scream. Plale faces exchanged worried looks. What’ll we do, what’ll we do?
I thought the neighbours would call the police, and half hoped they would as it would release me from the dilemma of whether I should call a doctor. It may sound exaggerated, but it’s only when you hear the howling of the possessed that you can put yourself in my position then. On two separate occasions we nominated one of us to go down and try to intervene, but they were greeted with complete obliviousness until physical contact got a push and a command to leave.
After about an hour had elapsed the volume descended to her normal angry shout. I felt safe to go and retrieve my duvet, and was surprised to find she hadn’t smashed the room up. She was articulating pent up resentment to her mum about how everyone makes her feel bad but they should appreciate her more. Sigh. She would have done a lot better making friends and gaining respect form people (myself included) had she not always bluntly demanded respect and appreciation. She didn’t register my presence so I got my stuff and went upstairs. One of the boys cleared a space on the part of the floor he treated as a bed and I slept there while he took the sofa.
The next day some benevolent part of my brain remembered the difficulties I had all those years ago when I moved to France, and I decided that whatever anger I felt now, I should remember that she was probably in a potentially grave psychological condition. I wouldn’t wish a nervous breakdown on anyone. I decided to lend her the money to return to China for the holiday. Hearing her in the kitchen, I went in. I started to speak, trying to enquire how she felt. I was replied with an almost comically accusatory look. Neck crooked, brow furrowed, bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. I continued speaking tentatively, but no reply. Not a peep. I iced over, and left the room.
You may think I’m a bitch, she certainly does, yet a few calls later and I had somewhere to stay and someone to assist me move. I have some good friends.
The next two weeks were somewhat uncomfortably spent, not in the least because the house was occupied by environmentalists who feel 10 degrees C is appropriate for central heating. Beggars can’t be choosers though, and it brought back fuzzy memories of freezing rural China. As of last weekend I’m out of the cold place, out of London, and out of England. Pure bliss in central Europe. All my problems (minus the tax return which I have to do when I go home for Xmas) have been put aside until January, when I will begin my flat search with a vengeance. The era of the little emperors is over, a new dynasty shall begin.
