First post - be gentle. And try not to be sick.I've lurked for months, but have no Photoshoppy skills at all. So this is the first time I've been inspired to create a login. Sorry.
I answered an ad about five years ago for a flatshare, and met the girl who I'd be sharing with. She seemed very pleasant; bright, interesting and very friendly.
Everything was going swimmingly until two months into the flatshare when her bloke upped and left her for someone else. She plunged into a black depression which she mostly demonstrated by not doing any cleaning. No problem; I could deal with the kitchen and bathroom, and I didn't mind what her room was like. (I am famously tolerant. Don't get me started on the boyfriend who had the lapdance problem.) She cried a lot. I was as nice as a slightly distant flatmate should be, patted her on the back a lot and manufactured lots of cocoa.
I went away for three weeks to visit family abroad, where I had a fab time sunning myself and surprising myself with how many cousins I have.
Came home, got to flat at about two in the morning.
Almost before I'd stuck my key in the lock, it became obvious that things were not as they should be. Specifically, things did not smell as they should. Things smelled very bad indeed.
I entered gingerly. My flatmate wasn't in. The smell got worse. Couldn't work out what the hell it was...until I walked into the bathroom.
Used sanitary towels. Everywhere. Presumably two-ish weeks old, extremely stinky, and it looked as if she'd stood in the middle of the floor, spinning gently, and had carefully stuck them to the walls, the shower doors, the mirror...the place was tiled with the things. I swear that I have never, ever, smelled anything so bad in my life. It's indescribable, so I'll let you try to come up with descriptions yourself. Exceptionally terrible stuff. I'd sooner she'd stuck week-old chicken breasts on the walls.
In my absence, flatmate (who you will notice has remained tactfully nameless) had been carted off to whatever tactful name people give loony bins these days.
She never came back, I cleaned it up (I CLEANED IT UP!!!? This still disturbs me; what was I thinking? Why didn't I try to hire someone?) and lived there very happily on my own for a few months while her parents paid the rent in an apologetic fashion.
It still didn't make up for the smell, of which I am palely reminded every time I visit a ladies public loo.
(,
Tue 18 Nov 2003, 23:05,
archived)
I answered an ad about five years ago for a flatshare, and met the girl who I'd be sharing with. She seemed very pleasant; bright, interesting and very friendly.
Everything was going swimmingly until two months into the flatshare when her bloke upped and left her for someone else. She plunged into a black depression which she mostly demonstrated by not doing any cleaning. No problem; I could deal with the kitchen and bathroom, and I didn't mind what her room was like. (I am famously tolerant. Don't get me started on the boyfriend who had the lapdance problem.) She cried a lot. I was as nice as a slightly distant flatmate should be, patted her on the back a lot and manufactured lots of cocoa.
I went away for three weeks to visit family abroad, where I had a fab time sunning myself and surprising myself with how many cousins I have.
Came home, got to flat at about two in the morning.
Almost before I'd stuck my key in the lock, it became obvious that things were not as they should be. Specifically, things did not smell as they should. Things smelled very bad indeed.
I entered gingerly. My flatmate wasn't in. The smell got worse. Couldn't work out what the hell it was...until I walked into the bathroom.
Used sanitary towels. Everywhere. Presumably two-ish weeks old, extremely stinky, and it looked as if she'd stood in the middle of the floor, spinning gently, and had carefully stuck them to the walls, the shower doors, the mirror...the place was tiled with the things. I swear that I have never, ever, smelled anything so bad in my life. It's indescribable, so I'll let you try to come up with descriptions yourself. Exceptionally terrible stuff. I'd sooner she'd stuck week-old chicken breasts on the walls.
In my absence, flatmate (who you will notice has remained tactfully nameless) had been carted off to whatever tactful name people give loony bins these days.
She never came back, I cleaned it up (I CLEANED IT UP!!!? This still disturbs me; what was I thinking? Why didn't I try to hire someone?) and lived there very happily on my own for a few months while her parents paid the rent in an apologetic fashion.
It still didn't make up for the smell, of which I am palely reminded every time I visit a ladies public loo.
