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.

The Village of London

I suspect that my enthusiasm for befriending our whole building may be symptomatic of my rural upbringing - a feeble attempt to impose the friendliness of village life on a community of hard-nosed Londoners - but I persist with the belligerent optimism that more usually characterises BOF.

BOF, by contrast (a Londoner), doesn't like it when I smile indiscriminately at mad drunken old ladies in the off-license next door: 'She looked pretty harmless, I know, but did you see the size of her walking stick?'. But he has been making friends with the off-license proprietor himself.

A heavy night at the Pad

Mr Shop is clearly a man of fine taste, displaying extravagant brands of ribbon pasta alongside his bargain baked beans. A non-drinking, softly spoken Muslim gentleman, he appears to have decided that BOF is a bit of a lad, such that every time we pop down to pick up pasta, Mr S wows us with fictionalised tales of his weekends spent getting 'battered'. BOF, keen to fulfil the lad role, supplies long-recycled drunken anecdotes from his past, before retreating upstairs for a cup of tea and early bed.

And since we still don't have Pretty Neighbour's name, when we arrived back upstairs at the pad yesterday to find a 'Sorry we missed you' parcel slip on the floor, we were excited indeed. The slip, you see, said our parcel had been left with 'our neighbour'. No name on this either – but what possibilities.

Hair coiffed, we stepped politely into the hall predicting instant date success (BOF: ‘How about "that’s so kind of you, could I take you for dinner?"’). A bedraggled man ambled out of our other neighbouring door, and eyed us cheerfully.

'Ah, I've got a parcel for you!' he beamed, dashing off to get it.

Drat.

We recovered with a quick jaunt to the pub (not our 'local' alas, a seedy hostel always occupied by the same three patrons), only to find yet more local good-will. A man was carrying his bike through the bar. When we offered help, he offered us the bike – it had been living in the pub and he was getting rid of it.

I really wanted the bike. I played it cool, of course – pleased both by the find and the opportunity to prove London's villagey friendliness to BOF. I offered the bike man money, which he wouldn’t take, and pedalled it home excitedly, making extensive bike-based plans for the following day.

Next day, I scurried down our stairs to work, stopping to check on my wheels on the way out. My pub bike was gone.

Not the countryside, after all.