A comment from a follower (looking at you O’Malley) has reminded me of another awkward incident from my chequered past.
I lived with eight other girls during my uni years. It was everything you’re picturing right now.
Our living room was in the basement with a window that allowed us a rather limited view of people’s feet passing in the street. A poor man’s Riverdance, if you will.
It was a strange little set-up: sometimes cosy, sometimes claustrophobic, but always voyeuristic. We used to sit with our bowls of value pasta (what else?) and watch the world pass by as we caught up with the evening Neighbours to check we didn’t miss anything when we’d watched it at lunchtime.
There was – as you might imagine with so many girls in one house – an endless stream of comings and goings but this particular night we weren’t expecting any visitors. Or I didn’t think so, anyway. It was a dark winter’s evening and my turn to take the bins out.
I merrily opened our basement door – which led out to stairs up to the street – and a housemate’s dad was stood inches from my face, poised to knock. Ready to make the final step on his hundreds-of-miles-journey to see his darling student daughter. Now, as lovely as he was as a person, this particular dad had a large beard and looked somewhat terrifying in his hairy, unexpected presence on our poorly-illuminated doorstep.
Frozen to my spot just inches away from him, I screamed the loudest and longest scream I’ve ever screamed right into the poor man’s face as my housemates on the sofa looked on aghast.
Not my finest moment. I just hope I didn’t take any years off his life.