First year at university...
... but of course it was bound to start that way.

Shared a flat with six other guys. They were supposed to be like-minded, tidy souls, or so the prospectus promised. They were all untidy, Northern beer-drinking, non-smoking science students. I was not. (They also occasionally got laid. Damn, another difference there...)

The flat was at the top of the Toblerones (those who have seen them will know). The kitchen was on the top floor, and always had the windows open as the heating was invariably on full. Black rubbish bags festooned the floor, occasionally spilling their fragrant contents onto the permanently sticky floor. The mice had a field day.

I was persuaded, being the only one who could cook, to roast a turkey just before the break for a flat Christmas dinner. I agreed, on condition that others shared the work, doing the shopping and the washing up. The others brewed some suspicious white filth called wine, some of which was cracked open for the dinner, amongst a large number of other bottles. Things took a turn for the lary, and I retreated to the girls' flat opposite, reminding that the washing up should be done at some point. The next day, I disappeared, with hangover, for five weeks' barely-earned holiday.

January comes, and my parents give me a lift to my lovely residence. My mother takes a box of food up to the kitchen, and comes down looking ashen, saying that it's best not to go up there. They depart, quickly, leaving me to the depravity.

Eventually I venture upstairs. The windows are closed, and an unholy aroma fills the kitchen. The floor growls a little and undulates, where three of the bottles of home-brew have popped their corks to ferment their contents in the warm air, mixed with something that may once have been either roast potatoes or sprouts. The bin bags are still in attendance, some straining at the seams, others possibly just about ready to take a degree in social sciences. On the fridge, which is ajar (the milk has yet to make its escape, but is obviously thinking of it) is my roasting pan, with the partially consumed turkey carcass welded to the bottom. Some of the meat on the bones seems to be having a party- the rest is possibly trying to reattach itself to the bones in an attempt to get the bird to fly again. All of the plates are still on the table, leaving the appearance of a five week old Manchester Marie Celeste. WIth stuffing.

Home, sweet home.

I went off to a friend's flat to smoke something to take the smell out of my nose. The washing up was eventually finished a couple of weeks later...

In my second year, the two bedrooms on the ground floor of the house I lived in were occupied by a couple... Well, they had one room, the other was used by their two kittens as a carpeted latrine. By that time, it seemed completely normal to let the little ones shit and piss on the yellow and brown swirls of Axminster.
(groover j lazerus, Thu 25 Mar 2010, 17:55, 1 reply)

*click*
for bin bags about to take a degree in social science
( TheMattInAHat has a particular... odour..., Thu 25 Mar 2010, 20:45, closed)