Ah, Oxford...

...Despite what you might think, the majority of people I lived with were perfectly normal individuals who could hold down a job, cook without exploding the oven, and thankfully realised that after a couple of days larking around setting fire to poor people one's clothes need a good scrubbing and must be given to one's butler to wash.

However.

I currently live in a college house with three boys. I say boys, but they are all in their mid-twenties. I regularly find whole tomatoes sitting in the kitchen sink in a good six inches of water looking forlorn, as if someone has desperately tried to rinse them down the 50mm-in-diameter holes in the plug, and for some reason, failed. But since we have a cleaner to sort the kitchen, empty our bins and change our sodding BEDS every day (aaargh, the guilt...the needlesss guilt) this isn't an issue.

What never fails to raise a snigger is the utter and really quite endearing hopelessness of one of my housemates, who we shall call...David. David is extremely posh and has been at uni for six years having his arse wiped with a silver spoon. He's like a posh Mr. Bean. His head is in the clouds most of the time, but I recently overheard him in the kitchen having a desperate phone conversation with his mother asking her to tell him how to make...

...a sandwich. I wish I was joking. But I'm not. A sandwich.

Not the housemate from hell, perhaps, but quite possibly the one least likely to survive a nuclear holocaust...
(jennymnemonic, Tue 10 Apr 2007, 0:47, Reply)