Jill was insane. Jill was insane in so many ways. And we were stuck with her for one whole year.
A few examples, from
a fat volume of disaster, skipping the whining tales about body size, and parents, and
hellspawn siblings:
The Bathroom
One house. Six people. Six bedrooms. Two bathrooms.
One bathroom for the five of us. and one for
Princess Jill. It was her
private domain. Locked, always, inside her foofy
ensuite territory, and guarded ferociously.
Knock, knock, knock.
Silence.
Palm slap, hammer-thump on the door.
"J-i-i-i-ll..."
"What?"
"Jill, please, pretty please, James is taking a three hour dump and I really need to pee."
"Oh, you can't come in. The bath is dirty. Go away."
Rattle, rattle at the door handle. Handle stops moving. Scritch-scratch key turn.
"Go a-way!"
Run downstairs, knock, knock, knock on the other bathroom door.
"James? Stop eating three eggs for breakfast every damn day!"
When Jill finally deigned to let me into the bathroom one day, I understood her reluctance: the tub was covered with bright orange bath oil grease
gunk, and
enough body hair to make a hearth rug, and and the room was filled with the rotten stench of
bulimia.
The VCR
One house. Six people. One sitting room. One TV. One VCR, belonging to Jill.
One sleek, matte-black VCR, provider of video distraction and joy. We watched
Die Hard and
The Lost Boys a lot that year. It was a good antidote to
Classics and
Literature and
Law.
One day, the VCR vanishes.
Burgled? oh no!
Nope. Jilled.
"You've ruined my VCR!" she howled. "It's ruined! You owe me three hundred pounds!"
"It's broken?" we chorused.
"You've stained it! You've stained it with your filthy
cigarette smoke!"
"Um, Jill. Your VCR is black. It's not going to show even
the flithiest ickiest nicotine stains."
"I've put it in my room. To recover. You may not use it. Ever again."
The Debts
"I'm so
broke! I'm so broke. I have no
money. What do I do? Where do I start?"
She waves her
bank statement in the air, and pleads for advice.
We look. We gasp. We realise that her monthly
allowance is more than each us gets in the year. Her
overdraft, though, is even larger and scarier than mine.
We smile politely, and mutter, through gritted teeth and dagger stares, "Perhaps four pairs of shoes in one week is a little excessive? Perhaps you can stop buying clothes from
Chanel, for starters. You can skip the trips to
flashy London restaurants.
Revenge of the Cat
Poor Cat, so often shoved off sofas, and threatened with kicks.
Simple soltution: Every week or so, one dead bird, left outside Jill's doorway at dawn. Jill stumbles out, without her glasses, steps on the bird and screeches and curses.
Cat sits on the stairs, watching.
Later, Cat throws up on Jill's
pristine white
eiderdown. Oddly, the door is still locked.
Revenge of the Housemates
"Hey, kitlings, I think I've found the spare key..."
And so we gained access to
The Fortress of Solitude. And began the slow process of rearranging her furniture, in tiny, almost unnoticeable stages, around and around the room. Whilst watching videos.