One Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, I was enjoying the splendid sunlit solitude of the living room with a cup of coffee and
a good book when a huge Chinese guy came lumbering up the stairs carrying a suitcase.
"Hello," I said to this bear of a man, "Are you moving in?"
"Hello, yes," he said, "Just for short time. I go back to China after half a month. I am friend of landlord."
"Ah," I said. "Pleased to meet you. My name's Weasel."
"Weasel? Weasel. My name Phone. Phone. Like mobile phone."
If you say so.
We shook hands, he disappeared up to his room and I didn't see him again that day. But there are a trio of cacti lined up on a windowsill in the stairwell and I knew Phone was going to be awesome when I saw he'd moved the one bursting with bright pink flowers into the centre.
When I next saw him I produced a map of China and asked him to show me where he was from. That was when I discovered he was a talker. He not only told me about his city but described his whole country with eloquence and fondness. I probed his political views as tactfully as I could. Chairman Mao? Rubbish. The Party? Not important. The new capitalism? Good, good, everybody more rich. Tibet, Falun Gong? No good, cause trouble. History buildings, terracotta warriors? Just for tourists.
He thought it was hilarious that I'd been to China once - for three days. He scolded me, said I must go back, said I must see Shanghai, Haikou. He punctuated his speech with great bursts of laughter and comedy eye-rolls. It was impossible not to like him.
Over the next couple of weeks, every time he went to the supermarket he would bring me back something: a mango, a sandwich, a fruit salad, a pastry. He would knock at my door and when I opened it he would be standing there with his gift in an outstretched hand, beaming. He'd wave away my protests with a dismissive gesture and explain he'd got two for the price of one, or somesuch. I never believed him.
Such a nice guy. I liked how he never locked his bedroom door when he went out, and only ever closed it when he went to bed at night - an act of trust. And I liked the cheeky 'apology' for leaving the toilet seat up; washing rescued from the clothes line when it rained; eagerly shared websites of interest; outrageous gossip about the landlord; the surprise Tescos goodies; and always that great big smile.
But nicest of all, he left me alone. He was always around, but never in my face: the perfect housemate.
Two nights ago, I got home late. As I came up the stairs, a greasy-haired Indian guy was standing on the landing. He looked like he was waiting for me. He shifted nervously as I approached.
"Hello," I said, "Have you just moved in?"
"Yes," he said.
"I'm Weasel," I said, and went to shake his hand, and his handshake was like a sheet of wet clingfilm.
"I'm Marvin," he said, and then just stood there staring at me.
"Well, er, nice to meet you Marvin."
Uncomfortable pause.
"Excuse me, I'm on my way to the kitchen," I said.
"Oh, sorry," he said, moved aside, then followed me.
I put the kettle on, thought about making something to eat, glanced at Marvin who was standing in the doorway watching my every move, decided against it.
"So, what are the rules and regulations here?" he blurted suddenly with forced gaiety.
Eh?
"Er, no rules and regulations mate. Just if you make a mess clean it up, buy toilet roll from time to time, that sort of thing."
"Okay, okay." He nodded earnestly as if I'd just imparted the meaning of life. "This is my first time away from living with my family so I don't know what to do."
Oh god.
"Yes I am alone and homesick but I am sure we will be great friends and it will be fine. I am here for six months while I study engineering at the university. We can watch movies together, and play games - I have a Playstation - and my friends and me go salsa dancing and you must come too and dance with us."
I blinked. My worst nightmare was standing in front of me wearing a pink T-shirt.
"Sorry, I don't really like dancing, or watching movies, or computer games," I said. "I like reading, and, er, knitting and things you do on your own." I smiled what I hoped was an apologetic smile, grabbed my tea and tried to escape.
"I am from India," he said, apropos absolutely nothing, blocking the doorway.
"No shit," I said.
"No, really I am," he assured me.
"I was joking," I said. "I kinda guessed."
"Oh," he said. "Can you please teach me how to use the shower? I tried to use the shower this morning and could not understand it."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Today I am making porridge in the kitchen. Marvin appears.
"Morning," I say.
He stares.
"You will teach me how to make warts?"
"What?"
"Warts." He gestures at the microwave. "I want to know how to make warts."
"Wh-? Warts? Sorry?"
"I have a packet of..." He walks across to my food cupboard and points at my packet of porridge. "I want to know how to make."
"Ah, I thought you said... never mind. Oats. OATS. Um..."
Various porridge-making techniques flit through my mind, the main one being 'read the fucking label'.
"Just microwave it," I say unkindly. "Milk, water, you know. Or heat it up in a pan."
I retire to my room. On the way I see that Phone has padlocked his door.
