The moment I walked back into my flat, my neighbour ambushed me at the front door. You know, theres a man shouting his lungs out in your place every day. Hes driving the whole block round the twist, she announced dramatically. But how on earth was that possible when I lived entirely alone?
Next day, my curiosity got the better of me. Instead of popping into the office, I called in sick and hatched a cunning plan: Operation Stakeout. At quarter to eight, I made sure to leave the house loudly enough to draw the curtains twitching, fired up the car, drove around the corner, and then snuck back in through the kitchen door like an amateur spy. I promptly wedged myself underneath the bed, yo-yoed the duvet down, and waited.
Time slowed to an agonising crawl. I had just about convinced myself it was all in my head when, at exactly 11:20, I heard the front door being unlocked. Someone came in, as calm as you please, and shuffled across the hallway, entirely at home. His shoes squeaked across the laminate in a distinctly familiar pattern.
He strolled into the bedroom as if he owned the place.
Of course, my first thought was the same as always: how can this be, when I live alone?
And then I heard hima mans voice, deep and thoroughly irritated. Youve left everything in a tip again
He said my name.
That voice was so painfully familiar that the penny dropped so hard it practically left a dent. Suddenly I was more terrified than a cat in a kennel. (Continued below )
The truth finally came out once the dust had settled.
Turns out, my landlord had been popping in each time I left for workusing his own key, of course. He knew exactly when I left, when Id return Id confided it all, out of social politeness, never imagining I was handing him a daily schedule.
He didnt come to pinch my things or hunt for any wildly valuable treasures. Nope. He simply made himself at home.
Hed peel off his brogues in the hallway, plonk himself down on my sofa, switch on my telly, help himself to sandwiches from my fridge, have a soak in my bathtub, and sometimes even nap on my bed.
He knew the flat inside out, naturally; hed decorated it, furnishing it to meet modern rental needs. To him, it was still sort of his little kingdom.
You have to laugh: Theres a man shouting in your house every day How? Simpleit was the owner doing a running commentary on my questionable housekeeping. It got on the neighbours nerves because he loved an out-loud grumble about my drying socks or the dress I left draped over the chair. He loudly disapproved: Young people today, never tidy! And so on.
He could recite my routine. He knew my habits and that Id be out till tea time.
He just hadnt counted on me being the one to overhear him first.
When the police carted him off, he looked genuinely baffled. But its my flat! My keys! I was just checking everything was alright, he insisted.
Ever since, I never rent a flat without changing the locks on day one. Cheap insurance, really, for a little peace and quiet.
