Pinch Punch, First Day of the Month! (And Thievery Update)

I once went out with a girl who, on the first day of each month, would  punch me in the upper arm twice and say "Pinch, punch, first day of the month!" Such was my lack of interest in this obscure ritual, I never asked her why she was hitting me, or why she didn't pinch my arm and then hit me just once. Ah well, she's a malignant bitch and she's long gone from my life now, so I guess I'll never know.

(I should say that even though the above might sound like a monthly episode of domestic abuse, the blows were nominal.)

Anyway, enough of that. It may be Friday night and I may well be sitting at home alone posting this instead of being out drinking. And condoms may well be cheaper now than they've been for years. But who needs women and booze so long as I have my housemates. 

A Correction

Stinky Magee is not Stinky Magee's real name. The Stinky part at least (though he does stink). Nor is his first name Fingers or Ulick. In fact, no real names of civilians will be used in this blog, in order to protect the innocent. That said, Sean O'Dea is a thieving bastard.  

"Was anything stolen from your room, Sean?" This was Laura asking Sean yesterday after she found out some jewelry thing or other had been taken the night the valuer came over.

"Nah, don't think so," said Sean.

Pause.

"Actually, it was me, I took your stuff," he says.

"What?"

"Yeah, for a laugh. Then it went on too long and it wasn't very funny."

The fecker stole the stuff thinking we'd pin it on the valuer, then chickened out and said it was a joke. And this confirms my suspicion that O'Dea's been in my room on other occasions. I once wrote the words "WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY FUCKING ROOM??" on the inside lid of a box of Cornflakes I had under my bed. He couldn't look me in the eye for a week. Proof positive...

Bleedin' Tea-Leaf!!

For those who don't know, I live in a house. I live in a house that I share with other people. This house does not belong to us. It is the property of a landlady. We pay her money so that we may stay in her house. This arrangement seems to me tantamount to extortion and I am often tempted to report her to the gardaí. But such is the way of things.

Our landlady is mad by the way. And not in the "aw she's mad, you'll lover her" way or the wacky/zany/kerr-azy sense. I mean she's mentally unhinged. Check with John of Gods. 

Anyways, my housemates are as follows: 

Sean O'Dea, obnoxious bank official

Stinky Magee (real name), supposed journalist for free event guide

Laura McAllister, blond Kiwi pharmacist

A couple of days ago, Laura got a phone call from someone purporting to be a valuer who had been asked to perform a valuation of our house. What's this about, we all thought. Is our landlady selling the place up from beneath us and donating the proceeds to Uri Geller? Laura called her to find out.

"Piss off!" was the only answer forthcoming. 

So the valuer guy comes over on Tuesday night while I'm out. I come home round 11 to find Stinky Magee raising a ruckus.

"That estate agent fucker stole my Garbage Pail Kids collection!" he says.

"He was a valuer," says O'Dea.

"Why the hell would he come over just to steal your lousy Garbage Pail cards, you mentaller?" I counter. "Sure isn't he earning a mint doing his day-job?" I don't know that he is, but I'd say it's a safe bet.

"It was a crime of opportunity!" says Stinky Magee.

"Me arse," says O'Dea.

So, just to be on the safe side, I go up to the room and check all my stuff is still there. And what do you know, my iPod is missing. "Some bastard's after taking me iPod!" I shout down the stairs.

"You see? That guy was a bleedin' tea leaf!" replies Stinky Magee.

More news on this as it happens...