The short stories I wrote about the goings on at the green house led me to thinking about housemates.
When young and single, I lived in share houses on 2 occasions.
First with a female colleague. We were good mates and life was a ongoing party. One neighbour, I worried, was in danger of developing repetitive strain injury to her wrist from twitching her curtains while keeping tabs on the comings and goings.
All was rosy until I came home work to find my housemate, her boyfriend and a sack of aromatic green leafy stuff in our kitchen. It wasn’t oregano. They were foil wrapping and packing in ziplock bags a less culinary crop, marijuana, in preparation for a weekend trip to the city. When I suggested in the house wasn’t the best place, they moved it to her hatchback parked under the carport. Not quite what I had in mind, especially when my Dad visiting and foraging in the kitchen cupboards for tea emerged with a recycled Moccona coffee jar full of leaf, but not tea leaves, unless you wanted a really mellow brew.
Things got more confused after I went to call my housemate to the phone one post party Sunday morning and found her asleep in bed betwixt her boyfriend & his best mate. Successively the best mate became the boyfriend even though the old boyfriend remained the business partner.