Bofles and the Pad

And then young Bofles came to stay. Now, the arrival of any Pad guest is always cause for excitement. When he is the sofa-inhabiting, university-attending younger brother of my Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate himself, the enthusiasm reaches fever pitch. In anticipation, BOF bought the whole of Big Sains' fruit and veg section and plotted extravagant breakfasts to feed up young (six foot) Bofles. Then lights out at nine every night the week before and we were ready.

Bofles is a tremendous house guest. He maintained that the sofa was comfy: 'Oh thanks Kate, it's just the right size - no really! Ideal!' and had politely managed to secure work experience at a firm two minutes walk away. Though he was disappointed not to have the opportunity for a truly working-world commute. 

Last night, I arrived home just before midnight, after a friend's gig in Putney, to the sight of a coat fleeing down the corridor. 

'BOF?' I asked, confused. 

No answer. 

'Bofles? Hello?' Bofles' head poked out from the sitting room. 

'Ah hello Kate. Thank God you're here: I'm looking for my coat. Need someone to help me find it.'

'Your coat?'

'Yes. This is getting ridiculous! Nowhere to be seen. Have you been stealing it??'

(He is wearing it.)

'You're wearing it.'

'aHA!' Delight. Flees the room.

Bofles: let's see these shoes then

BOF appears at the sound of clattering. He is wearing new shoes.

'Oh hello Kate. Chaps - have you seen my new shoes?'

Distracted, Bofles straightens up from the mire of duvet and sheet he's wrestling.

'Shoes?'

'Yes. Look - they're new!'

'Hang on.' Bofles bends double to better assess the shoes. A pause. He sways.

'I'm terribly sorry, BOF, I can't seem to see them.'

We exchange confused looks and start giggling.
'Are you OK Bofles?'
In full drunken flight, Bofles' sentences collide and become oddly stunted. He's mad keen for us to leave but has a lot to say and can't reconcile these two things: 'Of course. Absolutely much fine. Been out at a birthday party - lovely time. Look here it's late, should really be in bed. Not very responsible. Being up this time.'

We continue to giggle, more and more like parents being embarrassing about drinking. Desperate to prove we aren't square, we start competing in stories about our own drunken exploits.

Unbreakable. The very thing

Bofles (in sudden realisation): 'Are you laughing at me? [Hurt] You are!'
BOF (conciliatory): 'What can I get you Bofles? Toast? Satsuma? Bagel? Er - apple? Water? [Holds out glass, which Bofles flails at.] Water in shatterproof mug?'

Suddenly and politely furious, Bofles leaps from the sofa ['It's true it is too small!'] and flees to the bathroom to vom.

We look at each other. Lairy behaviour in the Pad is this? At last! We must have him over again soon.

Celebration in the Pad (Pretty Neighbour Part 2)

This episode sees Kate and BOF ensconced in the flat of Pretty Neighbour (PN), having established that Dan (‘the competition’) is not of boyfriend persuasion, and that he has moved out. We have learned Other Neighbour's name (Daisy) but PN's remains elusive.

Prepare yourself for a display of miraculous cunning.

Suddenly, PN's front door opens. 'Daisy's home,' PN explains. ‘Daisy! Hey! Kate and BOF came over because their water's not working next door! And look [running tap] - nothing here either!'

'Oh no! I was going to have a bath. Thanks so much for letting us know guys,' Daisy says, little suspecting our ulterior motive. (Probably.) ‘Good day hun? [to PN].'

['Hun'? Oh great. What good was that to us? (Unless 'Hun' is her name - in which case very good. But it seemed unlikely.)]

We chatted in their kitchen for ten minutes, outstaying our welcome, telling endless stories that included one another's names in the hope that we would spark something similar from them. Yet still nothing.

Fearful prospect: a Residents Meeting

It was getting to the point when I thought we’d actually have to go to one of those residents meetings to resolve the Nameless Flatmate Issue, when I had a brainwave.

‘Hey, do you want to see our Pad? Now we’ve had the tour here I mean.'

PN (ever enthusiastic): 'Yeah! that'd be great.'

We traipsed next door to find Bofles and Max a little neglected, discussing water mains like old folk.

'Bofles, Max - meet our neighbours!'

'Hi, I'm Daisy.'

'Tallulah.'

I will leave you to imagine the feelings of delight and achievement this moment produced. Not only did PN’s name imply exactly the sort of fragile drama school type that BOF so loves, but Tallulah's introduction also meant we wouldn’t have to brave a residents meeting. It was as much as we could do to keep our highfiving imagined.

And there was better to come. Soon we were all discussing the building’s problem with damp and 'our local' like characters from Eastenders.

The parting triumph was BOF's alone. ‘Guys, I'm so sorry we couldn't offer you tea,' he remarked gallantly. 'Perhaps another day, when the water's back on? Perhaps next weekend?'

'A deal,' Tallulah and Daisy agreed. 'Also if you know of anyone looking for a place to live - we've got a spare room now Dan’s left.'

‘Max is!’ I volunteered excitedly, thinking it might be a little transparent to suggest BOF.

'Er' (Max)

'OK, great well speak to you soon.'

And they left.

You know that scene in Notting Hill when Hugh Grant the hopeless-bookshop-owner leaves his friends' house with Julia Roberts the film star character and his friends all celebrate? It was like that.

Bofles looked on perplexed and Max, fearful of being pimped out to two women he didn't know (no matter how pretty), fled.

Pretty Neighbour Returns (Part 1)

A mere trifling tea stash

You'd have thought that a week containing a ferry ride, driving lessons and a visit from the briefly-employed brother of BOF, Bofles, would be the highlight of Kate in the Countryside for months to come. No longer.

It was about half past ten the other night when we discovered, on seeking tea, that - though we had nearly fourteen different kinds of tea - we were lacking in tap water. There was none. It dribbled noncommittally from the cold tap before expiring.

Google tells me this is mould.
I've seen worse

Other than Bofles, Max, a BOF school-friend, was round for supper. Max has recently returned from India so we had invited him over to inspect our palatial dwelling. A combination of circumstances meant that Max had been greeted by a lack of loo roll, some gently moulding flowers in the sitting room and an overflowing bin in the middle of the kitchen floor. It was something like domestic cleanliness Cluedo. 


Though I think Max initially believed our claims that we were entertaining him like this to make sure the culture shock wasn't too great, by the time the water ran out he was clearly wishing himself back in Bengal. 

Decisive action was needed. BOF and I looked blankly at each other while Bofles nipped between bathroom and kitchen, trying taps and exclaiming his amazement when the result from each was the same. 

'You know what you guys should do,' Max offered helpfully, 'you should go and see if they've got water next door.'

BOF and I looked at each other, excitement replacing angst.

Regular readers of Kate in the Countryside may remember our feeble attempts to learn Pretty Neighbour's name when we first moved in months ago and, more importantly, the attempts to forge romance between Pretty Neighbour and BOF. Here, at last, was both the pretext and the moment. 


We were out of the Pad in seconds [stopping only to check BOF's hair]. 

Tentatively we knocked. No answer. Bit louder. No answer. Then 'One minute!' from within - the cheery tones recognisable even through the door. BOF looked as though he would flee. But then she was there! Pretty Neighbour herself.

Silence. 

'Er.'

(This was harder than expected. We hadn't even got to the point where BOF used this nocturnal visit as a springboard into a date.)

'Hi. There's no water coming out of our taps. We came to see if you had any! You can have some sugar in exchange!' We joked feebly.

'Oh no, poor you! Let's check. Do come in - Daisy's out tonight. [Yes!] And Dan's moved out.'

'Oh yes we wondered why we hadn't seen him about for a while,' we lied. [Thinking, 'Dan? A thwarted love interest?'] 'So where's he living now?'

'Well, Dan's moved in with his boyfriend.'

Dan, so long feared Pretty Neighbour's boyfriend, was emphatically cut from the picture. One obstacle down. All that  remained was to learn her name. And to commit her to that date.

To be continued....

MD, Nigella and me

Worth it?

Back at the Pad, our entertaining ambitions have peaked with the acquisition of a Nigella Cookery Book. Laters to Jamie, at the Pad we're all about aspirational nightlights and tablecloths and cake. While BOF wows all with a selection of healthy and nutritious main courses, I generally stick to the non-compulsory element of the evening (cake). And, er, Nigella lipstick.

Dinner party pitfalls are many and varied. But both MD and Bofles (BOF's younger brother) were in London this weekend, so we knew we had to up our game: this was to be the uber-dinner party, where we gathered together all we had learned from the previous few.

As BOF and I readied ourselves for the MD-Day Sups, we stilled our nerves with the thought that we were entertaining veterans by now, and previous dinner parties had passed off OK. True, it would have been better if I hadn't cut my hand on a blunt knife last week while washing up and bled all the way through pudding. But BOF, belligerently optimistic as ever, reinterpreted the grotesque spectacle as symptom of our devotion to dinner, and our guests were duly grateful.

More blood injuries were sustained another day, when an enthusiastic chum almost sliced a finger off with cavalier cocktail-making and retreated to the bathroom whimpering. But a monkey plaster and a caipirinha later, he was only emboldened by his injury. Though perhaps I shouldn't have chased him and others out of the door with a steak knife when they admitted that they weren't keen for clubbing actually, and they didn't want a coffee from the coffee machine either.

And, yes, when we accidentally set fire to our (Mother BOF-loaned) tablecloth the week before there was some confusion: (BOF) 'Ah. What's the consensus on what we should do at this point?'. But from the brink of calamity Precociously Media-Savvy friend (PMS) saved us all. Just as the napkins burst into flames, she threw her glass of water in the the blaze with sniper-like accuracy. Soaked salad, wax and oil combined deliciously to form the main course.

But these small misunderstandings and incompetences just paved the way for the presence of Bofles and MD at our table. And on the scale of incompetence? Well. I ran out of time to make a cake, and then was so worried about my only dish not being on the menu I had to be restrained from compulsive baking at 7.45 that night. And MD managed to peep over the disproportionately high table despite her Thumbelina proportions (we gave her the only proper chair). But otherwise… people left on time, no one shouted, no blood was spilled or fires started. Pagan it was not.

Frankly, it was rather a disappointment. We'll have to have the team back again. Perhaps with the addition of the Fight Clubbers from down the road. That should do it.

Housing Crisis Over

And so, dear reader, we were housed. Galling as it was that BOF found his belligerent optimism validated, that was the only drawback in the happy conclusion to our flat-hunting woes (apart from council tax. Who knew that adopting a salary could be so expensive?).

As I pack for the newly discovered Pimlico Pad, MD occasionally comes in to see how I'm getting on, bearing impractical pans ('This paella pan will come in handy') and nearly-out-of-date packets of expensive biscuits. She seems to believe that she is equipping me against starvation with these choice items. I, in an attempt to take things in hand, start frantically compiling lists.

Told ‘Kate, don’t worry about buying things – we’ve got everything you could possibly need in the garage’, some hours later I've efficiently extracted six wineglasses, and am clingfilming part of the acre of uneaten gammon in the fridge.

‘You can’t take that, I hardly ever eat meat,’ offers MD, bafflingly.

I put it down.

‘And you can’t take those wine glasses.’

‘Really?’

‘I might need them.’

‘Did you know we've got almost a hundred others in the garage?’

‘I might have a party.’

I could not argue. Having participated in the ravages of MD’s festive party schedule, the chances of her gathering together a hundred friends (or two hundred, face it - they could probably share) at short notice no longer seems particularly unlikely.

Later, Pimlico-arrived and caffeine-enthused, I move wardrobes, then move them back. The flat's previous owner was evicted for non-payment of rent. She has left behind some slightly sinister baby-accoutrements. I feel guilty - it is Christmas after all, poor homeless single mother. But efficient unpacking assuages this surprisingly fast.

BOF appears with boxes and boxes of thing. I have been calling him every hour with instructions as to domestic necessities.  

Not just books - also furniture

He looks a bit awkward. Turns out, Parents BOF have seized the news of his departure with wanton enthusiasm and have put most of his possessions in storage. As a result, what we have instead of useful pictures and the occasional rug are … books.

Many books.
 

'Well that's … useful,' I mumble, bit disappointed. You can't hang books on walls. Neither do they make comfy sofa throws. Or good cutlery.

BOF seems to be thinking along the same lines.

'But how practical,' he riffs, optimistically, 'who needs wikipedia with this lot? And see, we can line them up along this wall and you get … instant homeliness.'

Priorities...

Into this pitiful scene walks BOF's brother Bofles. You know you're ill-equipped for life in the real world when your flatmate's younger brother starts spontaneously explaining utilities bills to you and you realise that the slightly condescending tone he's adopted is perfectly justified. The same attitude is applied towards our relentless obsessing about the coffee machine I was given for Christmas [-Thanks MD]. Apparently normal people sort out useful things like the internet before they embark on the finer points of middle-class entertaining. But damn can we make good cappuccinos. The internet can wait - we've got a pretty fine library after all.