Not Making it up

When you lost your key, then lost my key, then called me to ask if I could rummage around in your room to look for it, I took this to be a seductive invitation to contract dysentery. 

As I rummaged, I noticed with delight that you are not a person that buys into globalised, polluting mega-corp make up brands that clutter up your cosmetic bag. Instead you have chosen to substitute all these superfluous capitalist excesses with one half-eaten Mars bar. 

It's just so beautifully simple.

Shadow Art Exhibition

For a brief second I was sure that you had just inexplicably dumped the contents of your handbag on the rug this morning, but then I realised what a fool I've been. 

Please excuse me for not recognising your erudite artistry before. 

I actually really enjoyed the shadow art exhibition, and am personally honoured and humbled to have my very own light sculpture by our own front door! I can't wait for you to place an Anglepoise lamp beside it and reveal the silhouette of a really pissed off housemate on the wall.

Couldn't Hold a Candle to You

 I sincerely appreciate the effort of buying a scented candle to counter (in your words) the 'sour milk' smell in the corridor. The candle smelled divine, but what wasn't smelling as forest fruity when I came through the door this afternoon was your picture frame 10cm above it, which was scorched and smoking lightly.

 Everyone loves a roaring fire in the winter months, don't they?

P.S. The sour milk smell is all your rotting food in the fridge.

Bringing Your Dates Home..

For a brief period I was convinced the house was on the precipice of an invertebrate infestation. These small cocoons were appearing everywhere, seeming to gestate (in my imagination) some sort of dreadful moth type animal. However on closer inspection I realised its actually the half chewed date stones, gifted by you- 

my creatively slobbish co-habiter.

Prizes for originality, I would never have guessed.

  I have seen them everywhere, by the toilet, on the infamous landing windowsill, the kitchen counter, in the bathroom sink. I assume you're trying to channel the spirit of an Egyptian taxi driver at snack time (which I totally respect). 

Embracing another culture's stone spitting habits is commendable, perhaps I could play the role of the agonised and exasperated wife who follows you around picking up your dried fruit detritus from the carpet, yay for us!

There is also this lone survivor stuck to a bit of plastic on the sofa, I assume he took refuge in the living room because you only use this space as a rubbish bin.

Don't give up, little man!

Microwave it is then..

I admire your passion for cuisine, and your enthusiasm to conjure up complex and sophisticated recipes. I also know that it doesn't mention in The Guide To French Provincial Cooking that you have to wash the pans afterwards. I understand its confusing, but would it be straying too far from the instructions on the page to just leave one pan for me to use? 

Any pan, any thing, just something I can cook in, they are ALL mine after all. 

In twelve hours you have used all the forks, all the wooden spoons, all the frying pans, cheese graters, and chopping boards. I would wash up a few, but you filled the sink with crap and then left the sponge in it so that when I squeezed it, something very similar but not identical to butter came out. 

I bought those sponges damn you, you won't like me when I'm hungry.

The Basics of not Killing Me.

Hey Guuuurrrrlll!!! Whats up? Oh You know, just trying to not die in a fire, 

or come home to a pile of ashes that was once my life's possessions, what evz. 

There's nothing I like more than coming home to a nice warm kitchen, until I remember that we live in a complete dump with no heating, and this must mean that you've just wasted £7.00 on the electricity meter by leaving the hob on again. 

I really liked the extra touch this time of leaving flammable torn-up cardboard just next to it for kindling - impressive survival skills Ray Mears!

I now understand completely- you're an adrenalin junkie, and I can help you with that! You're just starting a little too small. Why don't you start base jumping, I know a really high building you could start from! Don't take this the wrong way, it's just a friendly reminder for the fifth time in two months to please try to not kill me.  

My Modern Art Periodical

Of an afternoon, one can find me soaking in the view from the landing which overlooks the rich autumn colours displayed in our delightful (and unusually large) London garden. However, although used for soaking and doubtlessly coloured with rich autumnal hues, I don't feel like your used tampon is sufficiently contributing to my musings enough to validate its presence on the windowsill.

I personally enjoy the work of Tracey Emin, I found 'My bed' to be a daring comment on the insecurities and imperfections of a female contemporary creative. Emin did however, put her 'artwork' in a gallery, thus exposing her flawed self to the world, I feel like instead of making your post-modernist installations on the windowsill of our council house, perhaps you could be persuaded to take it to Saatchi? I feel like maybe a good throat-grabbing (re-Nigella Lawson) could re-align your creative chakras, art is suffering after all.

P.S: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, there is no end to your absence of shame.