Dear Girl Who Stays Down The Hall,
First of all, hello. Seeing as we have shared shamefully few and painfully polite words as we manouvre past each other in the hallowed halls of Tocil 31, this may come as a shock, or at least a rude surprise, like nude joggers. Indeed, what could a perfect stranger offer in terms of advice and goodwill? I say perfect stranger because I have no knowledge of your last name, although I admit the last names of the boys round the L-shape of Tocil 31 escape me too. To me, you are Kat. Or Cat. You could be Katherine, or Catherine, or Katherina if your parents preferred more exotic monikers. To me, you are Cat - mysterious, elusive, hidden in the shallow depths of your room and lazy like a fat persian.
If we were to cross paths in the claustrophobic space that is Warwick University, I regret that I would be unable to offer salutations, partly because you are hardly a forthcoming lass, and also because it is extremely difficult for me to differentiate you from the masses of British girls that dribble from the bowels of the university.
You are an enigma. On Monday, I will see the oaktree curve of your back as you sneak past my door to avoid interaction. On Wednesday, I will see the vast expanse of your derriere as you swoop into the kitchen to grab a tin of what must be self-cooking baked beans, because you do not stay long enough to heat them up, let alone warm the cockles of my heart. My last sighting of you was outside our (I do not mean this in a comradely fashion) flat, assembling with the rest of the inhabitants as we glowered collectively and with murder in our hearts, trying to sniff out the one who set off the fire-alarm, for he would smell of burnt toast. You donned a bathrobe of unattractive proportions and colour and you had your spectacles on. Because we all know how different women look sans makeup, the truth is I would be unable to pick you out if presented with a sample of drunken party-goers from the Union.
The truth is: I would sooner recognise your Significant Other, the noble man who is undoubtedly squirreling you away from the rest of the world. I wholeheartedly agree with your choice of partner - friendly, eloquent, inquisitive, and rather attractive if my other hallmates' taste is to be trusted. I see that you see his admirable qualities, and therefore you have decided to launch a one-woman campaign to shield him from female contact forever and ever til the end of his monogamous life. Using industrial-strength glue, oh, you wily minx! Keeping him tethered to your bed and threatened with whips, letting him out so he can make you breakfast, lunch and dinner while you lounge around, like the Cat that you are, while keeping a fast hold on the invisible leash. Noble, noble man!
Yet, for all these musings on your identity and your authoritarian habits, I have intimate knowledge of what transpires between you and your kept man. Why? Because while I do not see, I hear. And it is not only me, but it is the whole of Tocil 31, as well as 32, as well as Tocil in its entirety and maybe even the whole of Warwickshire. I understand that the both of you are going through a rough patch, or a broken-glass-and-rusty-nails patch, but please, a girl needs to get some work done. Will 'The Seizure of Power: Fascism in Italy' read itself while I listen through the slightest crack in my door? No! I conjure images and short films in my head as you proceed to presumably kick the living shit out of your boyfriend. This is what I heard and have also taken the liberty of filling in certain parts:
You: HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU!
Him: (inaudible mumble) Yes dear, I think it is time we part ways because I cannot possibly father a litter of fat kittens.
You: (bordering on hysteria) IF YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH THIS, THEN YOU'RE FUCKING WRONG! SAY SOMETHING! SAY SOMETHING!!!
Him: (mumble) Your ass is too big and I am tired of these tethers. They cut into my wrists and the marks are dreadful.
You: WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. WHO THE FUCK!!!!!!!
Him: (mumble) Frankly, I don't know anymore. I can feel our personalities merging, your body slowly absorbing mine like those savage tropical plants that suck the juices from insect bodies. God, resistance is futile.
You: SO WHAT? I'M WRONG? AM I WRONG TO SAY THIS? YOU'RE ALWAYS RIGHT AND I'M ALWAYS FUCKING WRONG, AREN'T I? I'M ALWAYS FUCKING WRONG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!
(At this juncture, I hear a cacophony of sounds as you chuck objects at your boyfriend and give him a beating within an ounce of his life.)
Now, either he quietly left the building and charitably let you drown in your own tears, or you have killed him and stuffed him under your bed. Whichever way is of no consequence to me, because one of you is no longer living and one cannot have a decibel-smashing argument with a corpse. For my own peace of mind, I do wish that you have been permanently silenced and reading this from beyond the grave, but my female intuition tells me that you will be stalking the halls once more. Bear in mind that other people live in this flat too, and we will not tolerate anymore hysterical screaming and banshee wailing, because it will upset the natural order of things and destroy this oasis of calm. Another hallmate has generously attempted to rid the air of bad karma by a rigorous process of zen and kimono-wearing. My reading schedule has been interrupted beyond redemption. Everyone thinks you are deranged and homicidal (it's always the quiet ones, isn't it?) and rest assured, I will not be making any attempts to recognise you from now on.
If both of you are still alive and are still adhesively-inclined, I wish you a lifetime of bliss and quiet lovemaking, while I sleep restfully in my bed with one eye open.
Your Concerned Hallmate,
Sarah.
Recent Comments