I want to christen this blog with the best of Stupid Ridiculousness to date.
On Sunday, 2nd March 2014 – I thought my boyfriend was an axe murderer.
It started like any regular lazy Sunday. We hit snooze several times which resulted in us not seeing morning. We skipped breakfast and I forgot to take my tablets.
This is where everything seemed to go horribly wrong. I live in a bedsit studio flat, in the attic of an old Victorian house. We have a shared shower room downstairs, as there’s only a toilet in my room. Usually he takes the key to let himself back in, since the door permanently locks itself as soon as you shut it. The lad goes downstairs to the shower, and I sit on the bed, happily uploading photos to Instagram.
No more than fifteen minutes later, I hear a knock at the door. I wasn’t dressed so didn’t answer. I thought it couldn’t be the lad, he usually takes about half an hour, preening himself, having a shave, messing about with his contact lenses… that sorta stuff. I ignore it and carry on uploading to Instagram.
The knocking starts again, getting slightly more aggressive. I continue to ignore it and go to the toilet.When you gotta go, you gotta go.
The aggressive knocking starts getting more and more violent, until they started to bang on the walls. Desperately, anxiously waiting for my lad to come back from the shower, whilst sat on the pan, all sorts went through my mind. It’s the landlord with the TV licence people. It’s NPower because I haven’t paid my electricity bill. It’s a neighbour from downstairs that isn’t happy with us for whatever reason. It’s a murderer!
I went into panic mode. Still on the toilet, I flushed as gently as I could and turned the light off so whoever it was couldn’t hear the fan going. I then sat on the floor in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, turning my phone on silent and the vibrate ‘off’, so whoever it was would presume that nobody was in. I was frantically texting my lad to hurry up, as he often takes his phone down with him. I wasn’t getting an answer.
The thumping on the walls and knocking on the door had escalated into someone ringing my doorbell intermittently. This is when I started to really freak out. The person clearly wasn’t going away, so I called my friend from the house nextdoor to come over and scare off the scary intruder. He agrees to come over, but tells me he can’t enter the building. I plucked up the courage to leave the bathroom floor and make my way to the intercom to buzz him in. As I crawled out of the bathroom, I went straight into the door handle, striking me on the eyebrow making me temporarily dizzy and dazed. I stumbled across the room, unsure whether I felt sick with anxiety or with concussion.
I hear my friend come up the stairs cautiously, before shouting, “Darell!”
As with anybody with sufficient reasoning, it was my boyfriend trying to get back in the flat after his shower. He hadn’t taken the bloody key. Shaking with adrenaline, I opened the door and angrily threw his shoes and shirt at him, and locked him out for a few more minutes for good measure. The dick hadn’t had the common sense to say “it’s me, love. Let me in”. I hadn’t the common sense to ask who it was through the door. He thought I’d collapsed and I couldn’t hear him. I did mention I nearly had done from twatting my head on the door handle.
My boyfriend had temporarily turned into a scary burglar, who was quite possibly on mind-altering drugs. At which point, I wondered whether I was on mind-altering drugs myself to construct such a ridiculous context in my head. The experience was like Silent Hill but in broad daylight and with a large glass of wine at the end of it. For lunch.
He’s taking the fucking key in future.