So in the end it was simple. Isn't always? Gert, clearly fed up with all too often finding me on his couch, concocted it over a joint and some beer as we watched Greys anatomy and ate (yet another) terrible take away from Spice and Rice, which seems to comprise all of Gerts diet. It was a good plan, i liked it. I was as enamoured of the couch dwelling as he was, after all, and i'f i'm paying a mortgage on a perfectly good dwelling, well. why not live there. This is all indicative of your impending mental breakdown, he philosophized as the plumes of bud smoke rose. You're not wrong i thought, and simultaneously, said.

The next day Gert took my keys. HE, not having the fear of Rhonda, marched right n there. By all accounts, there she was, sitting there, in front of the tv, wearing ,my clothes. He said to her, we have to talk, put your clothes on. she complied, and why not. it's not as if she's a bad girl or anything. Gert said: i'll take you for a few drinks. Will H be there? she apparently asked, eyes a glow in expectancy. Yeah, sure he said. I was waiting in Gerts car across the road, and watched them leave. With me was young Michael Bean, who's a locksmith by trade. In we wnet, quick as a jiffy, changed the locks in 20 minutes. I paid Michael, texted Gert, got out the rubber gloves.

Oh man. firstly the empty bottles: Château d’Angludet, 2003, 3 bottles, gone. " of my finest Amarone, 1 bottle of Huzzar left from a party about 13 years ago. Who drinks huzzar? 2 Jameson. All though, i may very well have drunk them myself. Misiones de Rengo Reserva Chardonnay. just the one, like. who drinks chardonnay. kept for the ladies. a few other i had lying around, some Masi, bottle of port i picked up in Lisbon last year that i was going to give to my mother as a present before she disowned me. Oh boy. There was take away cartons and the bitch had scorched the bottom of two of the le Creuset's. So i scrubbed, picking the tiny bits of doritos from the carpet. Scrubbing off the wine stains from the couch. opening all the windows to deodour the place. as i sat down to drink of my private stash (ah ha) later that evening, and to contemptate the general weirdness of it all, there came a tapping upon my door. I'm sorry the little voice said, let me back. Let me in. Oh i know what she's like, that wiley wench. I can't. i can't go near her. she is a deep, dark pool that i cannot help but skinny dip in. Please, she patheticises outsite.

Not a fucking chance.