I live on a quiet residential road in North West London, backing onto a park. I have a newly refurbished room with access to a back garden that is shared with the house next door. The landlord owns both houses and I have lived in several rooms in each. Fortunately for me the back rooms -- as well as having access to the garden -- are the ones which have their own shower as well as a kitchenette.
Through the wall I heard noises a few weeks ago, consistent with the familiar sounds of furniture being moved around and large heavy objects being plonked down. I left for work one Saturday morning in January to see a large estate car and two women shifting stuff into the house. I smiled in greeting and one of them, a blonde, smiled back and gave a cheery "Good morning!"
"Good morning!" I responded in kind. I guess we are neighbours?"
"No," she chuckled, "my friend is moving in. I'm the muggins with the car."
Her dark-haired friend came out and looked at me nonchalantly. "Are you gonna give us a hand or can I get this one back to work?"
I apologised and said I had to go to work myself, but assured them if they needed anything later, my room was at the back, just stroll round and knock.
That evening I was pleasantly surprised to get a tap on the back door within seconds of arriving home and hitting the light switch in my room.
I opened up to be greeted by the short brunette with her long hair tied back and thick glasses on.
"How's the move going?" I said in greeting.
"Oh, ok, I guess. I'm Lorraine by the way."
She extended a hand and I shook it, but not too firmly. Her body language seemed assertive but her tone was warm and friendly.
I told her my name was Chris and asked if anything was wrong.
"Well," she grinned, "this is such a cliché and I never imagined I would have to say this to anyone, but
could I borrow a cup of sugar?
"
"Oh GOD!" I said in a mock groan, "You will get the cliché Police onto us! Question is do I risk it being a joint venture or do I wind up in the witness box putting you away?"
Mercifully, she actually laughed despite that being one of the stupidest wisecracks I have ever come out with in history.
"Will Canderel be enough? I have not bought sugar in six months and only have sweetener to offer to guests."
"Sure! So why did you quit the sugar?"
"I was snorting five lines a day, I am in rehab."
She grinned and nodded in a way that said "Yup, that was funny but you are definitely crazy," but what she actually said was: "Ooooh-kayyyyyy."
I grabbed the Canderel from the cupboard and handed it to her. To recover the situation I said about how I had joined a gym last November and was desperate to lose weight.
She deserved an Oscar for her response to that. The whole eyelash-fluttering thing and the glancing me up and down appreciatively with kind words about how I looked
fiiiine
to her.
"Whatever." I deflected, "I still can't see my feet in the shower."
She laughed. A warm and genuine laugh. Then she suddenly remembered: "Oh! About the shower? Do you have problems with hot water?"
I explained about the times the water heater goes on and off and advised that for a scorching hot shower, use it 6.30am or just after midnight, and for a nice warm shower use it around 4 - 5am, and any other times it is pot luck.
"Oh." she said, like this could be a problem, then added: "I may have to be taking cold showers then. Like, I will be needing maybe three showers a day, which is why I took the room in the first place." She blurted out.
"Oh." I said, mirroring her "Oh." seconds before.
"Yuh," she said all flustered now. "Well, thanks for the sweetener. I would invite you round for a cup of tea but things are kind of chaotic for now."
"No problem, but I was about to make myself one if you would care to stick around?"
"Another time, yeah?" she pleaded.
"Ok."
We said our
G'nites
and she was off.
I flopped onto my computer chair to drink my tea and ponder all this. First thought was she had to be on the game. Only a prostitute would need three showers in a single day, surely? But some things you don't discuss in polite conversation, and I was not going to ask her outright.
The moral compass span in my brain. I had sworn blind I could never pay for sex or even sleep with a woman who was -- by my standards -- slutty. But I did not judge her as I liked the idea of being PAID to have sex and kind of admired her for doing something off her own back, so-to-speak.
So I had a new neighbour who was a whore? Kind of adds a new angle to the girl-next-door fantasy I suppose. With that thought I went to bed.
The following day was a Sunday. No work for me. I pottered around, cleaning my room, going to the laundrette, watching a DVD and then creating a random playlist of music videos on the computer as background entertainment whilst cooking a late lunch. I found myself obsessing about Lorraine. I thought about what attracted me to her. We are both short, both obviously wear contact lenses although I wear the ones you can sleep in for a month, she wears the ones you take out in the evenings. There is a definitely refreshing honesty about her body language and the way she responds to people. Or at least, she can fake sincerity so well that I cannot tell.
I devoured my tuna pasta and remembered I had left some washing at the laundrette in a tumble dryer. I raced off to retrieve it.
My grin was huge across my face (I could feel it) as I saw Lorraine sat at the laundrette looking utterly bored, staring at her smalls whizzing around in the washing machine. I pulled out two black sacks and emptied my stuff from the last dryer and quietly said "Hi!" to her.
"Hey!" she responded warmly. "I guess I am gonna miss having a washing machine in the house. You always use laundrettes?"
"For over ten years." I announced, putting the full weight into each syllable as I said it for full comic effect.
She grinned, and then pulled a sympathetic face. "Geeeeez!"
"Yuh."
We seemed to fall into an awkward silence and I did not want to ask after her blonde friend in case she got the wrong idea, but she sensed the tension and broke the ice.
"So Chris," she began, "What do you do for a job?"
My stomach knotted. We were going to have this conversation HERE in the Laundrette? Are you fucking kidding me?
"I'm a Civil Enforcement Officer." I told her plainly.
"A Traffic Warden?" She suggested.
I explained that Traffic Wardens work for the Police, we work for the local Council. Similar job but most parking issues are a civil matter, not a criminal matter. Britain is different to the rest of the world in that respect.
"Wow," she breathed, "but you seem like a nice guy!"
"I am! I just tell the drivers it's about consideration for other road users and has nothing to do with me screwing people over."
