Welcome to England, there’s a badly dressed homeless guy breaking into your house.

So here are some things that happened to me this week:

–          I got a new job

–          I decided to get a vagina and took up baking for a very short period of time (a skill that would come in handy when I train my pet cats to have tea parties), but ended up setting fire to my dad’s kitchen

–          I watched more terrible TV that gave me a great idea

–          Whilst trying to do a good deed, I managed to scare the shit out of some foreign exchange students and deeply offend a whole family

So yeah. New job – nothing really to tell there. I am once again a bar monkey. I’ll tell you something, I did not miss that smell of stale beer as it goes through the dishwasher though. But I am already enjoying watching people get drunk and making fools out of themselves. It’s just instead of being university students, it’s grown-ass men in sweater vests and Oliver Peoples eyewear (that’s right, it’s eyewear, not glasses) and women in hideous trouser suits. Note: Just because you’re older and you drink expensive cocktails, does not make you a classy drunk. Seriously.

In other news, a couple of nights ago I was at Olivia’s house again to watch some bad TV – my new favourite pastime – and we ended up watching What Happens In Kavos. Which was a whole lot of piss drinking, STD sharing and dick tattooing. It makes me feel super grown up because I ended up saying words like ‘disgusting’ and ‘abysmal’ as an involuntarily reaction every so often. I know my mum would be proud. Or I’d like to think so anyway. Olivia and I were discussing what it would take to make our mum watch a programme like this, because she downright refuses to watch any shows where young people have fun/that aren’t the news, and we decided this would be the only way:

Clockwork'71 + kavos

Ludovico technique + What Happens In Kavos = The realisation of how good it is to have sensible children like me and Olivia.

We actually went on one of these holidays, but to Malia. It wasn’t one of those 18-30 holidays though, because hanging out with a load of dumb-dumbs that would have severely bullied me in school is not my idea of fun. If my mum was ever worried about me turning into a Slutty McSlutterson when I was out there, she really had nothing to worry about. This was my reaction to the attire adopted by this young lady, and pretty much every girl out there:

malia

I think after that holiday I am now unshockable.

Whilst most teenagers were being dry humped and groped on booze cruises, me and Olivia spent the majority of our holiday doing this:

malia2malia3

This, by the way, is called the “pool pervert” look. Coined by us.

But don’t worry, we did manage to have lots of fun on nights out without having to take our clothes off. Unlike this gentleman.

malia4

Anyway. The next day, I decided to start baking. It was the first time I’d baked since I took food tech at school for an easy mark. I liked food tech until I cut my finger making a fruit salad half an hour into our first lesson, and I knew my teacher was never going to like me when I had trouble doing the write-up because I had so many plasters on my hand. Let’s just say nothing has improved since then – I’m still terrible in the kitchen. I can’t even cook simple things. Like, you know those 10p noodles that you cook on the hob with water? I was at this guy’s house making them on a gas hob, and when I leant over to check them, and I literally had a Mrs Doubtfire moment:

You know what’s worse than catching a boy staring at your boobs? When he’s staring because one of them is ON FIRE.

I honestly don’t think I’m a real woman; the only signs I’ve had to prove that I might be are the fact that I like to moan a lot and that I always make a high-pitched squeal when I see kittens. Which is poor evidence at best. There’s nothing else. I don’t like children and I’ve never fancied Brad Pitt. Hold on; I think I can hear some real women hammering on my front door, ready to lynch me with a noose made of daisy chains.

I mostly began to bake because I was procrastinating from doing work that I needed to do. It was definitely more hassle than it was worth. First, I didn’t put the cake tin on a tray and cake mixture oozed out and went all over the oven, which eventually got so burnt I couldn’t open the oven door without getting a face full of smoke. Then I couldn’t tell when it was cooked because I didn’t time it, so I assumed that if it was sloppy in the middle, it was pretty much done. I took it out of the tin and put it on top of the cooker in the baking paper I’d lined it with. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise I had left the hob on, so when I was looking out of the window, daydreaming about which celebrity chef I’d be (just FYI, I would totally be a badass chef like Martha Stewart, and I’d teach people how to bake nail files into cakes) my cake caught fire. And no matter how many times I do fire safety training at work, I can never remember what to do in emergency situations like this. I eventually got it to go out with a lot of flapping and swearing, and if anything I just hoped it had cooked the cake some more. It didn’t, and when I tried to put the icing on, it just got all mixed in with the extremely burnt bits and the sloppy undercooked bits. It looked like a cake that had been horrifically murdered.

Whilst I was in the kitchen cleaning up after my very unsuccessful cake attempt, I saw something suspicious happening outside my window. There was an old homeless guy looking through the window of one of the houses on my little estate. After looking through the window for a while, he began tugging on it, trying to prise it open. When this failed, he walked off – I assumed to go and look through some bins for potato peelings to snack on. When I told my dad, he told me the couple who lived there had gone out about an hour or so before. It seemed highly suspicious to me, so when I saw the couple had come back I decided to go round there and just give them a heads up about the homeless man.

After I’d knocked on the door a few times to no answer, I was about to walk away when the window on the top floor opened. A young guy leaned out and said “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I live just there, and I just wanted to let you know that I saw someone trying to open your window earlier.”

“Are you serious?”

“Uhh, yeah.”

“What happened?” He shouted down to me.

“Well, he came up to the window and was peering through,” I shouted back. “And then he gave the window a tug and walked off.”

This was really embarrassing, especially as people on the road could hear what I was shouting. It was only then that the guy came downstairs and opened the door. He looked genuinely scared and get muttering “Oh my God.” He invited me in, and led me through to the sitting room where his girlfriend was.

“This girl said she saw someone trying to break into our house earlier” he told his girlfriend, who then also got really scared. This was horrible. I was in my most hideous clothes, I wasn’t wearing a bra and my hair was so greasy. And to make it worse, their house was full of strip lighting, AKA the ugliest light known to man. It’s the kind of light that makes Megan Fox look like Ron Jeremy.

Turns out they were foreign exchange students who had recently come over from Hong Kong, and I had just given them the worst “Welcome to the Neighbourhood” ever. He put out a chair for me and placed it opposite where they were sitting, and told me to talk them through exactly what happened, which also included telling them the ins and outs of my cake-making debacle, which I think may have been a mistake. “I knew it.” The guy said. “I knew there was something dodgy going on. I’ve seen some weird people up and down this street. I knew it was only a matter of time. Was it this window?” He asked me, pointing at the window of the room we were in. I told him no, it was the next window along. Turns out that was the window of the house next door, so I was going to have to tell this story all over again. The young guy was so grateful to me for coming and telling them, so he said he’d come next door with me. As I waited for him to go and get changed I sat with his girlfriend, trying to make small talk with her about my awful cake. She wasn’t really listening and started telling me about the high crime rates in Hong Kong, which made me feel even worse about unnecessarily scaring them.

When the young guy was ready we went next door. I was planning on a subtle “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think I saw someone trying to open your window earlier,” but as soon as the door opened, the young guy said “SHE SAW SOMEONE TRYING TO BREAK INTO YOUR HOUSE EARLIER.”

Shiiiiiiit. The woman who answered now also looked extremely stunned and scared, and I had to try and play the conversation down. As I started explaining the situation again, her son also came to listen. The last thing I wanted was an audience. “What did this man look like?” She asked me. “You said he looked homeless didn’t you?” The young guy said. I agreed. “Yeah, he was quite scruffy, he was wearing these weird jeans and he had a big beard. He looked like…”

And just as I was about to finish my sentence, the man I was describing came to the doorway.

“…You.”

Awkwaaarrrd.

So yeah, turns out the weirdly dressed, homeless burglar was her husband, and I looked like a massive dick. I literally could not make this up. I wish I could. I wish things like this only existed in my mind. After what felt like a lifetime of trying to defend myself, which did include a retelling of the cake story for the third time, and also the excuse that “I didn’t have my glasses on and there was cakey smoke in my eyes” I was allowed to leave. But in my opinion, there is no reason to have a beard like that unless you are actually homeless. The young guy was sweet though; he was so grateful to me for falsely telling him there was someone trying to break into his home, that he asked for my number and said that if he ever sees anyone trying to break into my house, he would let me know. It’s nice to know we have a neighbourhood watch thing going on now. I do think that if anyone tried to break into my house they would be severely disappointed, unless they wanted an old clock-radio, Day of the Tentacle on CD-ROM or some cookery books from the seventies (which includes “Will It Freeze? A Guide to Freezing Food” and “Cooking Authentic Jewish Food – Now In Colour”).

Advertisements

One thought on “Welcome to England, there’s a badly dressed homeless guy breaking into your house.

  1. I read a lot of interesting posts here. Probably you spend a lot of time writing, i
    know how to save you a lot of time, there is an online
    tool that creates unique, google friendly posts in minutes, just search in google – laranitas
    free content source

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s