LODGERS Part I

This week, Bloggiana is finally going to be decreed her absolute thingy and then she will be faced with the full horror of being single (good) and broke (bad). We sip a shared latte and I say I know why don’t you get a lodger? You live near the university so why not see if you can attract a visiting professor or a postgraduate student or something. Bloggiana nods her head thoughtfully and disappears into her IT world, laptop fingers twitching.

A few days later, Bloggiana tells me she has been contacted by a man called Jesus who is a Learning Enhancer in the Information Department. How very excellent. She says he’s a practising Christian so he won’t be a threat to her or her children. She says he’s the same age as she is and single. I raise my head from the shared latte and we agree it might be wise for her to check out his references and make sure all in all that his paedophile status is zero or below. Next thing, Bloggiana invites Jesus for supper – so he can see for himself the environment he would be living in. She has put in her ad that the house is old and creaky, that her household is lively, that the dog is smelly. So she is hoping that Jesus will come with an open mind and that the deal is already a done one.

All goes well, says Bloggiana. Jesus manages to pat the dog without recoiling. He doesn’t seem to notice the straw on the floor or the mice scuttling by in the kitchen. He doesn’t wince too much when she swears, which she does with abandon, in a nice way you understand but still, more like a French mercenary than not. Even better, Jesus makes no mention of his belief system (Bloggiana had googled him so that’s why she knew) and he doesn’t even flinch when she says she holds quite a lot of parties and has no plans to stop, broke or not broke.

Jesus the practising Christian comes to supper again. He is hesitating about whether or not to commit but Bloggiana says at least come and meet my daughter. Then you can decide over the weekend and let me know. Bloggiana has just had the full court news that week and her politeness filters are switched off. She is smoking like a chimney, swearing incessantly, knocking back the Pinot Grigio. Jesus walks in with a polythene bag which contains some soft drinks and a pair of beauty parlour slippers which he says his sister stole for him from Champneys or somewhere. He sits down, pours himself a cordial, then puts on the slippers. Bloggiana, momentarily flummoxed, sits down too. Christ, I’m bloody knackered, she opens gamely. Then lights up.

To be continued