When I bought my first house, I was thrilled to finally be out of not only the renting game, but the share-house game. I had found more often than not the experience of sharing with complete strangers to be a nightmare. Countless times throughout my twenties, I’d answer a “room for rent” ad in the paper, or a bookshop window.
My new housemates and I would spend the first few days toasting to new friendships, and three weeks later I’d find myself really living with psychotic control freaks or the world’s biggest slobs! Buying my own place seemed like the perfect solution to end the merry-go-round of freaky flatmates.
Unfortunately, not long after I’d bought, interest rates started to sky-rocket, and I realised I was going to have to take in a border. I knew I couldn’t accept just anyone, it had to be the right person. And that person seemed to be Danielle.
Danielle was bubbly and sweet and fun. She seemed perfect. I quickly contacted references, and excitedly rang her within a few hours to tell her the room was hers. My doubts about getting a border quickly melted away as she handed me a cheque! On her first night in the flat, we bought a bottle of cheap champagne, and sat around laughing as we tried to outdo each other with our flatmate stories from hell. I was sure this was going to be the perfect arrangement for us both.
How wrong I was. Within just a few days it became apparent that Danielle was not all that she seemed. She was going to be the worst flatmate of all!
A couple of days after she’d moved in, I came home late one Friday night to find the flat reeking of booze and cigarettes. I was horrified that every corner of my home seemed to have been tainted by the foul odour. I opened every window in the house, and went to bed, tossing and turning. I didn’t want smokers in the house; I’d specifically advertised the place as a “non-smoking” apartment. She was going to have to live by this, or leave. It was as simple as that. Or so I thought.
Danielle made a huge song and dance about how she had the right to do whatever she wanted in the room she was paying for. I tried to get her to compromise, to smoke outside in the courtyard, but she refused — and also refused to move out. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea how to force her out. I knew enough from my renting days that she had rights as a renter, that would probably mean I’d have to give her months of notice, and I didn’t want her in there another minute!
I gave her three months’ notice, and got my solicitor to organise an eviction notice, but it seemed that since my confrontation she was smoking nearly everyday, often with many of her friends. My flat began to smell like a cheap pub! If she’d just smoked outside, I wouldn’t have even cared but I couldn’t stand coming home to the pungent aroma of stale nicotine. It made my head spin, and I felt sick. My perfect home had suddenly become a place I didn’t even want to be around anymore. I knew I had to drive Danielle out, and as quickly as possible. But how?
Friday nights seemed to be party night for Danielle and her friends. I felt like I was literally living in a hotel, there were so many empty beer and wine glasses lying around. Then there was her boyfriend. Joe was the stereotypical crim if ever I’d seen one. No job, tats from head to toe, foul language pouring out of his mouth. He looked exactly like the people I saw on the crime stoppers posters at the local train station.
And that’s what gave me the idea: what if I set him up to look as though he’d done something wrong? I already knew that Danielle had given her thug boyfriend a key. All I had to do was wait for them both to be out of the house. I would rob it myself!
A few weeks later, the opportunity presented itself. I knew that while I was at work, Danielle had a job interview and Joe had mentioned he was going to see some mates. I quickly doubled back and, making sure no one was home, grabbed the television, some CDs and a few pieces of jewellery (all mine) and stuffed them into the car. Then I continued on to work, a little late, but with the perfect alibi. Then, when I got home, I rang the police to report the “burglary”!
I was disappointed to find that Joe didn’t have a criminal record, but he also didn’t have a very good alibi — the friend he was visiting was well known to the local police. Whilst no one was very keen to charge Joe, I firmly insisted that I believed he was responsible, and told Danielle that if she didn’t move out and take all her nasty friends with her, I would at least pursue civil action for my stolen property. Danielle agreed to leave almost immediately. It turns out she wasn’t so sure that Joe hadn’t done it anyway! The flat was soon all mine once again.
Without a border, I felt the pinch financially, but it was a small sacrifice if it meant having my home back. A few months later, my new partner moved in and at last I’d found the perfect flatmate. But I still tell him what I’m capable of, just to keep him on his toes!
Picture: Getty Images.
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