Easter Sunday, 2011
Electronic music was playing. Once the marijuana smoke partially dissipated through the living room door I had just pushed open, I was confronted with a site that was unusual even by our house’s standards.
Dickhead and his two mates were sitting straight-backed and side-by-side all on the uncomfortable couch-bed, as if it were the back seat of the school bus.
They were passing a substantial joint between them, and picking at the remains of last night’s cocktail chips.
Spanning the length of the wall opposite was the grainy but clearly recognisable projection of a naked woman. She was repeatedly inserting a gold burnished dildo into the vagina of her friend.
I said hello and excused myself to go work in my room at the other end of the corridor. Opening my laptop, I adjusted the curtain to block the afternoon sun streaming in my window on the third storey of my Rue du Temple flatshare in the Marais.
It was 5pm on Easter Sunday.
Easter Thursday 2015
There’re plenty of dickheads in Paris, but there are very few I’ve ever seriously contemplated sending an envelope full of sheep testicles out of sheer anger.
And yet, my ex-housemate was that guy. After booting me out of the share house, then shagging my ex for good measure, I was left seething with rage for about, well, ever since really.
Or so I thought.
On Thursday I was in Chez Prune, one of those popular French bars that has absolutely zero pros except an amazing location (I’m looking at you too, Progres). The reason I was there, and who I was with will be subject of a future blog.
With Easter in the air – Jesus died for our long weekend! – I was reminiscing about Easter Sunday as experienced in a sharehouse living with a Grade-A twat.
Spurred on by a few beers and a sense of occasion, I started to describe the housemate in minute detail: minute, because he was short.
No sooner spoke I the words “and then this short, fat twat had sex with my ex…”, that a sixth sense caused me to look to my right, where sitting three metres away was the housemate. First time I’d seen him in three years.
He was blushing red, though being colour blind, was probably unaware of it.
My anger dissipated, what else was there to do. Raising my arms….I waved back, and continued on with the story, louder than ever.
“So that short, fat twat there…”