A Short History of House Shares

I live with a school friend in university. We are very good friends. A year later we are not very good friends. A year after that we become very good friends again and agree not to live together ever again.

I have a terrible hangover and am cooking eggs. I am 23. A big half-naked man called Noel comes in and tries to use a juicer. He can’t work it out. He gets frustrated and asks me to help. I mutter some annoyance and try to work it. Noel laughs a big, mocking child’s laugh and says “I’m telling Chris you broke it.” I call him a kid. He doesn’t like that when I do that. He is 8 years older than me and this is everything to him. “You can’t talk to adults like that” he says. “You’re moving out” and I say “For what?” He says “I should rip your head off” and I say that my brothers will come down on the train. I have no idea why I’m saying this. Suddenly he has me round the neck. He is strangling me. The neck of my new jumper is getting bent out of shape. It never recovers. He is strong and there’s nothing I can do. His eyes are glazed and red. He smokes very strong weed.

A couple of days later, I move out. His brother is the landlord. They all get on and I’m considered ‘posh’ because I read books. They go off and walk the dog in solidarity. Noel’s brother says: “I don’t have a problem mate, but blood is thicker than water.”

I move with the guy who gives me lifts to work. They have a former utility room I can sleep in. There is room for a bed, but I can’t open the wardrobe. He says of the last flat: “They sound like nutters.” A year later, I leave of my own accord, but one of the housemates has said to me “Some people round here don’t have a lot of time for you.” I start to get the idea that I antagonise people.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

I look at the witness. She looks embarrassed for me. She may be blushing or it may be the heating.

“Well, no. I did a stupid thing and apologised for it and you said ‘okay’ and forgave me and then you changed your mind and I’m getting evicted.”

Martha is the judge in this kangaroo court. She is a trainee solicitor. The court is in her living room. She has her friend here as a witness. This was a trap sprung on me. I was supposed to be playing five-a-side football.

“Right. Thanks for coming, Helen.”

I go to my room and weep tears of frustration. I am 26 and shouldn’t be crying, but that doesn’t make any difference. I call my sister in law and explain that I have been kicked out. I explain that I had some magic mushrooms sent through the post. She says she will send my brother to pick me up. I feel relieved. I have somewhere to go. Fuck Martha.

Martha knocks on the door and comes into the room. She has been crying. “Do you want to talk about things?” Why so much interest in what comes out of my mouth all of a sudden? I turn around with a friendly smile on my face like I’m a Christian Youth Leader or a murderer:

“I don’t think we have all that much to talk about.”

“You think I’ve overreacted don’t you?”

“Yes. I would never have done the same thing in your position.”

She leaves.

The next day my brother comes to pick me up. We banter together as we take boxes down to the car. Martha looks furious and doesn’t say a word. He says: “She’s cheerful.” I say “You’d think she’d be happy. Winning that court case.”

I later send her a text asking for my deposit back. She refuses. By kicking me out, she is out of pocket. If I want to challenge her legally, bring it on.

Six months later I go travelling. A ‘mututal friend’ says that Martha thinks it will be good for me. Fuck Martha.

I live with my parents after getting back from travelling. My dad keeps saying that rather than turning on the heating people should hoover the stairs if they’re cold. Only I find this hilarious. My dad doesn’t. He is shaking with rage. He says “I’ll punch you in the nose.” Even the threat is funny, but I walk away shaken. I decide to move out of my parents place.

I live in a flat in Brixton Hill. Now I am 28. There is a man there called Kidus – he is a wide-eyed man who emotionally lives by the seat of his pants and shows me texts he is going to send to girls and asks me for approval. He says things like “Meringue-utan” when he means “urangutan.” I don’t know what to make of him. It is the age of Karl Pilkington. I find it hard not to laugh. Four years later we are having blazing rows. I get five page texts from him. He’s the worst girlfriend I’ve ever had. My landlady says that she wants to convert my room to an office and asks me to move out. Tears stream into my eyes. I am 31 and still cry at this stuff.

An old university friend comes to my rescue. He has a place for me to live. It’s perfect. My own desk in my room. Comfortable, spacious flat with excellent rates. I say “Hello” in the morning and sometimes he blanks me. I get used to it. 8 months later I come home and there is an eviction notice on my desk. I am 32. This time I don’t cry. This time I’m convinced I antagonise people.