There was a moment last night, at around 11pm, where the Brit and I had a rubber skeleton entwined around us.
There was wine involved.
Apparently it’s only in recent years that the Brits have thrown themselves into Hallowe’en.
Every pub you visit has that fake cobweb stuff strewn all over the paintings and light fixtures, and there are carved pumpkins sitting in every shop window.
Kids and chavs running amuck the streets.
Apparently it hasn’t always been like this. Britain has Americanised itself as a Hallowe’en nation, and frankly, it’s global villaging at its very best.
We went out last night – Sunday is fun day, especially with an extra hour of sleep as the clocks have turned back – and we caught up with another couple over gross quantities of wine at the Coat & Badge. A nice traditional little piss hole in Putney.
I had huge intentions of watching The Social Network, instead we got pissed and celebrated Hallowe’en on Sunday night.
Good thing too. I needed to let off some steam. Outside my house. Despite the fact that the roof has had some ‘makeshift’ supportive beams put onto the ceiling to stop any falling bricks from making their way onto my sleeping head, something else happened this weekend.
I may be a social networker, blogger, work in the media. But there are some things I am fiercely private about. And that’s my personal space.
I had a flatmate’s girlfriend go into my …
[Gasp]. Everyone freeze. Cataclysmically uncool state of affairs.
I’m all for borrowing and swapping shit, that’s the fun part of living in a communal house.
With one caveat: I'll get the stuff for you. Are you with me?
Don’t go rummaging around my drawer filled with dildos, condoms and other Sexy Time paraphernalia, dog.
Despite the embarrassment (“Oh my God she has a strap on, how will we ever do laundry together again?” ←---I don’t, but what if I did?), it’s my personal space. I get funny about this.
Unless you’re my best friend or boyfriend, step away from the closed drawers. Before I turn into Kathy Bates and chew your ear off in your sleep.
Perhaps I’m a bit tetchy and unnecessarily analistic about this. But then I ask myself: have I ever gone into someone’s room and rummaged through their shit without their express permission? No. And even in dire circumstances, I don’t want to know what’s hiding behind their closed drawers thanks very much.
And in my usual non-conclusive bad way of handling things like this (I'm out of practice, and don't want to be the bitch of the household), I haven't confronted the problem with the assertive forthrightness I would've liked. A passive aggressive 'oh right. I would've liked to have got the belt myself....but have a lovely evening!' just didn't quite mean: 'Don't ever ever do that again.'
Or maybe it did.
Pah. I'm annoyed.