Peace at Last

Wednesday 16 March

I’ve decided to keep a record of what they get up to. How can they even afford it? When my money comes in each month, it’s like, bang, rent, bang, bills, bang, food, bang, something boring like new socks or a tyre, bang, empty bank account until the next payday. I’ll break the rules have a pint now and then and feel guilty about it so how can they, with roughly the same sort of income as me, afford to go out five times a week? It’s not like they’re living on Sainsbury’s noodles like me either, I saw Jake sit there in front of the TV (we still haven’t paid the TV license – must keep on at them for that) and eat an entire fucking chicken! Last night was ridiculous, so I think I’m going to keep this journal until it all gets too much and they just send me over the edge. As always, I told myself I was just being a bore until about one in the morning, when they left. Who leaves the house at one in the morning anyway? Panorama kick out at three anyway, and if last orders is still at two like it was last time I ventured into that waking nightmare, plus half an hour queueing, plus ten minutes getting rid of your coat, that’s about ten minutes of waiting to get served at the bar – and that’s on a quiet night, and ten minutes of dancing – which is shit – and that’s just the ones that don’t even go for a fag break! Anyway, they were blowing a foghorn. An actual foghorn. Where the fuck have they got a foghorn from? I thought they died out with rickets. Anyway, I managed to nod off at about four, had to get up for work at seven, spilled coffee all over a customer, and got sent home early because, according to Mr. Rathbone, “I looked like utter shit.” Thanks boss and thanks housemates.

Saturday 19 March

Sometimes I wonder if they even remember that I live here. Right now, it’s five a.m. and my walls are being shaken by Adam and Sam’s pounding dubstep. I don’t know when sticking some bass on and amplifying a hundredfold a dodgy dialup internet connection from 1998 became considered good music, but I simply don’t, and never will, get it. It sounds fucking horrible. I found out they were going out when I was in the kitchen earlier, and, after biting my tongue to stop myself from asking them just where they got all their money from and where they’d got a bloody foghorn, I politely asked if they could keep the noise down when they got in. I didn’t make a jibe about not having to eat bacon at four a.m. and setting the alarm off, or not needing their shoes on to walk up the stairs because funnily enough, guess who hovered all the carpets, and believe me, I wanted to. I made a very reasonable, very civil request, and it’s being ignored. I have an alarm set for ninety minutes’ time, and I’m supposed to be opening the coffee shop at eight. I swear if this carries on either Jake the Gypo, Adam the Arsehole or Sam the Snob are going to get their nose broken.