31 Falkner Street (15)

Again, I am sat on Paddy’s bed, this time staring nervously as a large spider makes its way across the bedroom floor, in juddery, stop-start movements. It was blocking the way to the bedroom door so I was stuck. Even if I could get out of the room, I wouldn’t be able to sit on the couch in case I turned round to see the spider clinging to the flowery couch fabric next to my face, or even worse it could come crawling up my arm. At least where I was, I would be able to see it. Paddy was in work until late, so what could I do? I couldn’t think of anything other than to call Les. But there was a good chance that he would be either: annoyed and shout at me a lot, asleep, not able to figure out how to answer his phone, answer his phone in his pocket, or at the pub.

I called him, but didn’t get an answer. Peering out of the window, being careful not to let any part of myself touch the mouldy frame, I couldn’t see much sign of life on the street. I couldn’t really call Anna as I hadn’t spoken to her in a while and didn’t want her to think that I was only calling so that she could trap, kill and get rid of a spider for me.

I sat back on the bed and hauled the laptop onto my knee, all the time keeping an eye on the position of the spider and trying not to shudder or imagine it getting onto the bed. The internet wouldn’t work for a change. So I sat shivering and feeling sorry for myself. This house was so damp. The damp had eaten away at the walls, leaving huge greenish holes which Paddy and the others had covered with posters. The boiler in the bedroom upstairs had been leaking through the ceiling. Even when under the duvet, with pyjamas, thick socks and a hoody, I would still feel cold and wet through to the bone, and increasingly unwell in the mornings. The mornings were worse though. Waking up on a cold and dark Autumn morning with limited vision and not being able to see what was lurking on the floor for whoever to stand on with cold, bare feet, and then teeth chattering whilst stripping off layer after layer, standing in the shower whilst a lukewarm drizzle spurted erratically from the shower head, toes stinging, running back into the bedroom and crouching in front of the small and crappy electric heater which could only warm one limb at a time, and only for the period of time which the limb was held directly in front of the bars.

I felt sorry for myself because this was my house too now, after Laura had sent me a text saying that I should just move in with Paddy and that they would look for someone else. As charming as I had found this, I had found it even more charming that I had been expected to continue to pay rent on the house until they had lined up someone that really suited them. As far as I had been concerned, we had shown my room (which I had made sure was clean and organised) to two separate people who were both willing to take over my tenancy. But Laura and David wanted to hold out for someone that they both knew – which had meant me carrying on having a shower at the house, keeping my clothes there, and paying rent until they did. Which I resented as it had been them to asked/told me to move out. Who wants to live with people who don’t want them there? I’m ashamed to say that when it did come to me moving out, after they had found a suitable tenant, I also became a bit immature. I told them that their new housemate, Claire, could pay half of what I had contributed towards the TV license. They said no. I said that I would deduct the cost of this from my third of the gas and electricity bill. They said no. I said that I shouldn’t even be paying a third towards the gas and electricity anyway seeing as it had been them who benefited from having the heating on full blast 24 hours a day and that I hadn’t even been there. I also took the table that my granddad had made me and put it in Paddy’s house, and put Paddy’s coffee table in my old house. I got an arsey text. I said that the table was mine, and that come to think of it, most of the decor and kitchen equipment was mine as I had brought it all from my old flat. Before I gave Claire my keys, I snuck in when Laura and David were out and took my potato peeler and a couple of pans. I left the canvases and most of the throws, and the nice Ikea floor lamp. I left the frozen veg. Ha. I did knock 20 quid off my contribution to the bills, and after that, Laura and I did not speak. I even took to making sure I left earlier or later than her in the mornings because it was really embarrassing to have to keep ignoring each other when we were both getting in our cars, and to then be sat behind her at the junction.

Although I was pleased to be living with Paddy, and had been touched when I had returned home from work on my first official day there to find that he had cooked a nice meal and put some pistachio nuts in a bowl, the house really, really was foul. I had lived in student halls, I had lived in a cheap studio flat. This was something else. We couldn’t wait to be out of there, with the holes in the carpet, and ingrained dirt everywhere, and leaks, and rats. I think I felt it more than Paddy, who had renewed his contract after having lived in the house for a year. Why? We were paying through the nose for the privilege of living in the house, too. At least the dalmation door was now painted black, and most of the inside of the house was no longer spotty. To me, the spots hadn’t looked cheerful and funny. They had been painted on roughly and sloppily, the white was patchy, and it just served to make the rooms look more depressing.

My phone was ringing. It was Les.
‘What did you want!’ He shouted.
‘Oh, one phone call to you and I get a mouthful. You send me about ten blank texts a day because you can't lock your phone. Les, there’s a spider in my room and I can’t get out. Can you come and kill it please.’
‘Can I fuck. I’m not pissing well coming over to your house to get rid of a spider for you, you cheeky bastard.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘Yes! I’m at home! Where the bloody hell do you think I am!’
‘Come and kill the spider then.’
‘I am 69 years old! You’re shouting at a bleedin’ pensioner to come out in the cold and kill a fucking spider. Ooooh, get to fuck, you.’
‘You aren’t 69, you’re 66. You’re not just any pensioner. You’re an ASBO pensioner.’
‘Fuckin’ not. I’m sixty-fucking-nine. Are you telling me my age now?’
‘What’s your date of birth then?’
‘I don’t bloody well know.’
‘Oh. It’s ok Les, the spider’s gone. I stopped watching it, and now it’s probably in the bed, no thanks to you. Bye.’
Selfish drunk bastard.