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So. My flatmate got me some keys cut, so I didn’t have to hide in the bushes until he got home anymore. Whichh was nice. Until I got steaming drunk friday night and got home to find they weren’t our keys. After trying a few local locks in the spirit of Lord Lytton, I ended up sleeping on the landing, where one of new neighbours found me at 3a.m. and offered me a bed (inflatable).

The messages on my flatmate’s ansaphone must have been enjoyable though ranging from the initial “the keys don’t work” to the drunken “I’m sleeping rough, do give me a call.” to the desperate “I’ve been picked up for vagrancy, I’m getting hung in the morning.” and the final “ten minutes left until they stretch my neck, and you’re my only phone call. Tell mother my last breakfast was kosher.”

Then, then, I got up at eight, wandered off to Bath, gave away sofas and bookshelves (got locked out again, at which point a monkey-man with a t-shirt on saying “world’s best dad” appeared and scrambled over the precipitious gap to the open window, letting us), packed my dad’s car so full we had to tie a chair and a welsh dresser to the roof (she wasn’t happy), and at about 9 got back to my new address in West Ealing. At which point we unpacked and went out for a prohibitively expensive Nepalese meal (they must have brought it down the mountain especially) and then I went to sleep in a junk-filled room.

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