Tuesday 20th September
It’s the big one. The eve of my twentieth birthday. For the last two months I have been in a mopey state of anxiety. As of tomorrow, I will not be a teenager anymore.
So of course, to get over the fact that all I have to look forward to now in life is incontinence and death, tonight we will be getting absolutely slaughtered.
Wednesday 21st September
I’m woken to at least ten missed calls from my housemates wondering where I am. If any of them had seen me last night, they would probably realise I would be in bed. It might well be three o’clock in the afternoon, but I think I drank enough to comatose a bull elephant.
After opening my birthday presents (three Guy Ritchie films on DVD, courtesy of a brother who obviously takes hints well; I’m gonna overdose on cockney), I take time to try and recollect the events of last night with the housemates. On the timeline so far we have:
8pm- The first guests arrive.
8:30pm- The first game of Ring of Fire begins.
9:30pm- I am made to complete an obstacle course round the house, which culminates in me opening the front door with my teeth, and lapping out of a dish like a dog on our front porch. In front of the people of Portswood.
After 10pm- …
I have it on good authority from a girl on my course that I handcuffed myself to her and her friend (it was a Cops and Robbers theme) and then asked them ten minutes later with a look of abject confusion why they were attached to my arms.
Happy birthday to me.
Friday 23rd September
While taking a shower today, I have the feeling that something isn’t right. A vague sense that some unspeakable horror is about to unfold, and that I will unwittingly be caught up in it.
I mentally check off the things it could be: Johnny bursting through the door in desperate need of the toilet as the amount of fast food he has consumed recently has caused his bowels to spontaneously erupt; Ginger bursting through the door to chastise me because she’s found out I may have passive-aggressively used her conditioner to wash my body hair after she moaned at me to do the washing up; or, disturbingly, Charlie bursting through the door to talk to me about planning our radio show for the weekend. All these, while I’m in the shower. Frightening.
I tell myself the door is locked, and thus these scenarios are impossible. I then notice the water pooling around my ankles. Which, considering our shower is one of these new-fangled showers with a plughole, shouldn’t really happen. After I dry myself, I pull out of the plughole what can only be described as the deformed love-child of Cousin It and the Dulux dog.
I was right. It was an unspeakable horror. Also, I don’t know where the above image originated from. At least now I know that unholy union took place, and the resulting birth happened in our shower.
Wednesday 28th September
Today I overhear a conversation between Barbie and Ginger. No, it’s not eavesdropping. It’s only eavesdropping when you put the cup to the door to listen. I put mine to the wall.
It turns out that Barbie was only on a trial run at her job, and has been let go. Apparently ‘Not all people are cut out for bar work.’
Johnny and I can kind of see her former employer’s point; upon visiting the pub she was working at, she wore a face so depressed, it was like someone had told her that West Quay had burned to the ground and she was the main suspect, and thus banned from every department store in the country.
Which would probably near enough kill the poor girl. After all, she did say once, ‘Yesterday I went to return a top… And I accidentally came back with two more.’
Good luck trying to pull that trick again with no job…
A time machine magically allows Sam to skip three non-eventful weeks and end up writing you a tale that features the house turning into an igloo, a police officer in his living room, and a devil in his bathroom.