When you find yourself chugging along quite happily in the barren wasteland of singledom, completely devoid of prospects and sick and tired of emotionless shagging for the sake of shagging, it’s reassuring to know that at least someone in the world is getting their kicks with a guy they actually like.
Case in point, Ms Blondie McFabulous. If you’ve been following her blog, you may have noticed that she’s conveniently wiped all traces of unfortunate encounters with amorous Aussies and dickhead Doctors from her little corner of the interweb, leaving just this one little post. She’s happy – it’s adorable and also rather sickening, especially when you live with it.
We yelled and screamed and whooped about it plenty at the time on twitter, but I’ve not actually taken a moment on the blog to celebrate the step onto this next particularly exciting rung of the ladder, so excuse me for a moment while I do so, and then I’ll get back to the story.
HURRAH! BLONDIE AND RITZI LIVE TOGETHER NOW! WE HAVE A COFFEE TABLE AND EVERY MUG CATH KIDSTON HAS EVER MADE AND MORE (EMPTY) BOTTLES OF WINE THAN YOU’VE EVER SEEN UNDER ONE ROOF!
Right, sorry, that’s done now. Oh, wait. Also there’s this:
Home sweet home!
Anyway, speaking of our sweet home, yesterday I left work relatively early, in the grand scheme of life. I thought, heck I’ve got to be up early in the morning and I want time for at least 2 glasses of wine before I pass out for the evening, so why not leave before 7pm?
I know, sometimes I surprise myself with my lack of commitment to my job.
Knowing full well that Blondie had been picnicking with the PM all day (that’s ‘Perfect Match’ by the way, unless she’s feeling particularly barf-worthy, then it stands for ‘Prime Minister’ of her heart. Don’t even.) I sent a cautionary text at 6.30.
‘I’m coming hooooooome’ it warned, giving plenty of notice seeing as I had to actually leave the office, trudge across town to Charing Cross, get the train and go to the supermarket to pick up dinner. Basically a generous hour of warning.
When I get to the supermarket, I realise she hasn’t replied, so I drop her a line to see if she wants anything particular for dinner. No response. Clearly, she is dead.
I send another warning, for good measure.
‘I’m nearly home, if you’re having sex please cease and desist in the next 10 minutes.’
No response. Definitely dead.
So, I buy my healthy healthy dinner of root veg and greens, and toddle off home thinking I’ve done pretty much everything I possibly can to make my presence known. I am a damn good flatmate. Conscientious to a tee, ya might say. I get home, open the front door very loudly, stomp up the stairs and rustle my bags around as much as humanly possible at the door, and open the door to Blitzi Mews veeeeeeery slowly.
Then, I feel like a bit of a tit because the flat is silent. Until, however, I drag my bags of shopping into our stylish living room/dining room/kitchen and notice something is ever so slightly awry.
Oh yes, that would be Blondie McFab’s knickers on the floor. And… is that her skirt beside them? Oh, yep, bra too. And… is that guy’s undies? A casually discarded belt? A wrinkled pair of jeans?
I’m not entirely sure where their shirts ended up, but I can confirm they were not hidden beneath any of the flattened sofa cushions. The lid to the lube bottle I kindly gifted dear Blondie however, was.
Now, I’m sure you recall, Ritzi is a damn good flatmate. So, without further ado I left the living room and stomped particularly forcefully down the hall and into the bathroom.
Some muffled shuffling and a quick door slam later, I figured it was safe to emerge. Thankfully, the walls are rather thick in Blitzi Mews, so I did not here the actual conversation inside Blondie’s Boudoir, but I have since heard that it went a little bit like this;
B: ‘Oh crap! Ritzi’s home! Well, it’s fine, we’ll stay in here, she won’t mind as long as we’re quiet.’
PM: ‘Yeah… but all our clothes are in the living room.’
Back in the living room, the floor was suddenly clear of all offending items. I considered letting them get away with it, but then remembered… that’s not what I do. So I raised my voice above the canned laughter of Friends (if in doubt, always turn on the TV loud in these situations) and informed the promiscuous pair that I’d definitely already clocked their knickers and it was no use hiding.
Mere moments later, a sheepish Blondie emerges, while a red faced PM legs it into the shower and leaves her to deal with the fallout. I have to admit, I found it extremely difficult to avoid dissolving into a squiggly mess of giggle at the sheer mortification on her face.
‘So, will PM be joining us for dinner? Or has he already eaten?’