Friendship is not a thing

I had an epiphany last Friday night. And I'm going to share it with you, whether you like it or not.

OK, I kind of took the thrill out of it by writing that title, but here you go:

Friendship is a social construct, and it doesn't really work. Theoretically speaking it makes sense and it is beautiful, but in real life it barely exists. Let me explain.

First of all, I want you to know that this is not a whiny, cynical post about how I thought I had friends but it was all a lie and the world is such a cruel place and my life sucks and boohoo. I have what the dictionary considers friends and I love them very much, thank you. So if you are an edgy teenager looking for poorly created poetry to feed your hunger for drama, you better head off to one of those cheesy inspirational Tumblr accounts, because this post won't give you what you want. 

Friendship doesn't exist. Not in the pure, eternal way we have learnt to respect. Sure you can have a loving relationship with a person that will help you through hard times and go out and have fun with you and listen to you and call on you when they have a problem, but that doesn't last forever. And if it doesn't last forever, I am sorry to tell you this, it is not friendship. And now let's go for the cannot-be-unseen bit:

Most of the acts you have observed throughout your life that you thought were fueled by fraternity and comradeship were not such. They were powered by kindness, not friendship.

Again, let me explain this further; remember that time your dog Poncho was run over by a truck and you thought you were going to die of despair? Remember how you told your friend Jessica, or Adam, or whoever the hell your best friend is, and they spent four hours straight talking about what had happened even though they had an exam in three days, and  how they then called you every day after that for a month to see how you were doing, and hung out with you all the time to keep you distracted?

That had to be friendship, right?

Sorry, love. That wasn't friendship. That was kindness. They would have done it for anybody.

You think I'm bullshitting you, don't you. Let's see it this way:

Imagine someone else's Poncho had kicked the bucket. Someone that is not you had a terrible neighbour with an awful, noisy truck and now they hate the world and want to kill themselves, or everyone in their building, or whatever. Imagine they call Jessica. Adam. Whoever. And I mean the same Jessica we were talking about a few lines above. They are not the closest people in the world, but they get along. They don't know who else to call and they just pick up the phone and call them. Do you think your best friend would hung up on them? Do you think they would let this person, who is calling for help, deal with this situation on their own? No, they would not. They would just spend those four freaking annoying hours talking about how no one will ever replace Poncho but how things will get better. Sure, they won't be as happy to do it as they were with you, because this other person is not their friend and you are. Sure they won't be calling every day for a month to see how things are going, but they will call or text for the following week. Wanna know why?

Because they are good people. And that makes them look like they are good friends.

What we detect as friendship is nothing more than very nice people being particularly fond of someone.

There are, of course, some -usually fleeting- exceptions to this. There is always this guy who is a total asshole but will bring you the moon if you are their friend. That can happen, but usually the day things go wrong and the asshole gets angry at you for whatever reason, you are screwed. Let me illustrate this with an example:

My -a long time ago- friend Mary was super BFFs with this awful girl, Shel. Shel was a terrible person. She would make fun of everyone, she was manipulative and would try to take advantage of you at the first opportunity. She tried to kick me out of our group of friends because the guy she fancied had a crush on me. That kind of person. Well, Mary and her were as close as it gets and shared secrets and all that crap that comes with teenage friendships. It lasted for a while, and then, to nobody's surprise, Shel screwed Mary over. I don't even remember what happened, she just behaved like the little bitch she was and Mary started seeing who the real person she was dealing with was.

Well, as soon as Mary realised she had been wasting her time and how big a skunk her so-called friend was, it took her like five minutes to start telling every secret she knew, every fear, every skeleton in Shel's closet she could think of.

So I want to know. Do you think Mary was ever Shel's friend?

I know she wasn't. And deep down, you know it, too.

If the quality of a relationship can get crushed the second one of the two members gets angry, that quality is as good as non-existent. If all your secrets are one dispute away from getting shouted to the world, then that is not friendship.

And you may be thinking, "But she was a bitch, you said it yourself! She does deserve to be treated like that, she shouldn't get to enjoy the perks of true friendship once she has behaved like a jerk!"

And you may be right, I don't really know. The problem here is, who decides whether a behaviour is bad enough that you should stop being friends? I mean, what if I tell you my deepest fears and we are the best friends in the world and then something awful happens, like, whatever, your boyfriend falls in love with me? You have a boyfriend, you love him very much, and he decides to break things up because he wants to be with me instead. Even if I refuse, you still lost your boyfriend because of my existence, and that, even if maybe not your particular case, is enough to trigger nearly anybody. A million different people would start hating me in that situation, probably finding some kind of excuse to make it look like it was all my fault and therefore having what they think is a legitimate reason to hate me and screw me over with the tons of information they have on me.

That is not friendship. That is a short-term contract for having fun and not being lonely.

"But Jacky and I had been BFFs since we were 8 and when I slept with her boyfriend in college at her birthday party she stopped being friends with me but never used anything she knew against me! That was real friendship, right?! RIGHT???"

First of all, you slut, I hope you get cheated on in every relationship you have. Second, that was real friendship (one way, though) only because Jacky is a good person. She was capable of ending things and move on without going after you. This comes more of being a decent human being than a good friend. And just to clarify, in this case maybe you deserved to have all your secrets told because you were such a crappy friend to Jackie, I don't really know. This area has more shades of grey than that cheesy trilogy of books, but my point here is that deciding what is punishable and what is not is such a subjective matter and the borders are so blurry and difficult to define, that you cannot have the survival of your relationships depend on that. Even if the person did something atrocious, you can never know if it was a misunderstanding, or if someone made it up, or any other possibility. Secrecy and trust given during a period of time should never be broken just because in another period things are not working as nicely.

The problem is, this goes wildly against human nature. You have been screwed, you want to screw back. If you are capable of not taking revenge on someone for the simple fact that you once were friends, that probably means you are a balanced, mature person, with tons of empathy and a heart the size of a bulldozer.

So, basically, what I am saying here is that good person overrides good friend. Every good person is intrinsically a good friend, and to be a good friend you need to be a good person. Therefore there is no such thing as good friend -a bad friend or a meh friend is not a friend-, so there is no such thing as friends. Or if you prefer it, let's say the concept of friend is just not necessary, since it can be covered with other aspects of human behaviour. Friendships that last for decades and that work are just very very good people who like each other very much.

Or, to put it in another way, the foundation of friendship is not the connection between two people, but how those people are separately. Mutual affection is little more than a detail, not the basis. Two beautiful people that cross paths will most likely end up being friends, because they both have what they need to be so. They just have to like each other.

And I said this was an epiphany because, as I said earlier, I consider myself to have friends. I think I am very lucky indeed. So noticing this has put my world upside down. It has forced me to think about each one of my friends and about how much I trust them, and I have noticed two different things:

1) Most of my friends are not. We have a lovely relationship, I trust them for tons of things, but I am aware that I don't own the whole package. Our love and trust is not unconditional. A lot of my close friends are guys, and a lot of those relationships go down the drain as soon as one of the two get a partner. Me getting a boyfriend has made some of the relationships weird enough not to be sustainable anymore. Them getting a girlfriend has made them disappear -in some cases this would have happened regardless my and their gender, though. Some people just vanish when they get a significant other-. A lot of others were amazing in person but are not willing to make the effort necessary to keep things going now that we live in different cities. Or maybe the simple fact that there has to be an effort is proof enough that the relationship is not as strong as we thought it was.

This doesn't mean I don't appreciate them or that I don't want them in my life, though; I'm just saying that we don't share that super absolute gorgeous relationship in which you can call on each other if you need to hide a body. It doesn't mean I don't think they're great. Just for the record.

2) The friends I do trust for nearly everything, the people in my life who I consider are and will probably always be my friends, are extraordinarily, and I mean extraordinarily good people.

For this second point, I need you to understand how extremely objective I am trying to be with this. I am not saying they are wonderful because they are my friends. It's the other way round. The few people I can think of that I believe won't desert me come what may are these little shiny creatures from books who are nearly incapable of lying -about subjects that matter- and who have a genuine hard time when they see others suffering. They have their own lives and won't hop on a plane to go help the first person who is throwing a tantrum over something stupid, but they will go to huge extents to help you out if you are worth it and you need it.

This gives me a headache. Do I really have any friends? Or would they do anything for just anybody who is nice and a good person? And if I have to choose, which option is better? Do you love your friends because they would take you out of a building on fire, or do you love them precisely because they would take anybody out of a building on fire?

Well, I choose to pick as friends those people who would save anyone. I just think and hope that the day something happens, this friendship thing people keep talking about will make them choose to save me first.

La fille de Brest: European cinema that won't make you jump off a bridge

I am at San Sebastian International Film Festival! I'm certain you are all keen on hearing my opinions regarding black and white Belarussian films you will never ever watch, so I come bearing a bunch of super exciting reviews for you!

The first one is about the opening movie for this 64SSIFF, which has been, and I have no idea why since nobody knows about it, La Fille de Brest (La Fille de Brest/150 Milligrams, Emmanuelle Bercot, 2016), which tells the real story about how doctor Irène Frachon (Sidse Babett Knudsen) had to try to bring down a powerful pharmaceutical company practically on her own when she realised that a drug called Mediator, used as appetite suppressant and prescribed by French cardiologists for years, was actually causing the death of a ton of patients.

Focused nearly exclusively on its main character, who is as brave and stubborn as it gets, the story is light and acceptably thrilling, with te small issue that it looks more like a series of mini-episodes than a whole product. Indeed, talking to some other viewers after the screening, we all agreed that the feeling of repetition was difficult to ignore. This is really not a big deal, though, and speaking in general terms La Fille de Brest is a film I can recommend, especially due to the good cast choice, in which everyone makes a brilliant job. Moreover, it is always cool to get to know a real story as aggressive as this one. Real-life Irène Frachon, who is, by the way, a genuinely lovely woman, told us more about this subject in the press conference, that you can watch here. Probably the most interesting bit was Irène explaining how she has not really been harassed by pharmaceutical companies after spilling the appetite suppressing beans, but how she barely goes to medical conferences anymore because she knows doctors are not very fond of her.

I also was grateful by the fact that the movie doesn't fall into the million cliches that would be expected in a title like this: there is no parallel romance to compensate a frustrating marriage, no unnecessary sex scene, that kind of stuff. The only stereotype they do show is about pharmaceutical companies being evil and mean as hell. It might even be true, I don't know, but it's kind of tiring to always see them portrayed as the super bad guys.

Also, as an FYI, just know that there are a couple of really hard-to-watch images regarding surgery. I was fine because Grey's Anatomy and CSI have trained me well, but there is an autopsy scene in which some people left the theatre. Just so you know. Nevertheless, it's just like five minutes in total, so you just have to look away. And ignore the sound of cracking ribs, now that I think about it.

Foxxie IV

Uoh, am I late or what. Anyway, if you want to understand what I'm about to tell, you may want to read Foxxie I, Foxxie II and Foxxie III first. And I promise this is the last of the story:



From the moment I am asked to leave I completely stop talking to Foxxie and Muggie. Whenever they dare say something to me I reply with the minimum amount of words possible and the few times I am forced to communicate with them I keep it as short and dry as I can. The only thing I tolerate is saying hi in the corridor.

Days go by while I desperately look for a new place, and Foxxie starts getting aggressive. She stops saying hello and she never talks to me, even when it is necessary. Instead, she leaves notes. She doesn't even address me in them, she just writes impersonal messages instead. One day in which I leave a tupperware of soup open in the countertop so it cools down, I leave the kitchen and when I get back the tupperware is closed and there is a note next to it:

Hi, can we please keep food covered so we don't get rodents in the house. Thanks!

Oh wow. I giggle. I take a picture and open whatsapp.

Me – xD They are not talking to me anymore, they now leave notes -I attach the pic-. Because knocking on my door and actually speaking is too mainstream, I guess.

Daisy – Are you serious??? Talk about passive-aggressive!

I restrain myself from going to see Foxxie to tell her she is an idiot, because I still don't have a new flat and the situation can get quite unpleasant.

But couple of days later...

Please wipe benchtop and stove after use.

This requires an explanation so you can understand why this particular request makes my blood boil.

My two flatmates are not particularly dirty, OK? The house is acceptably clean. Nevertheless, there are a couple of details that clearly state they aren't exactly in love with cleaning either. The first one is this glass:

That glass is there always. Eternal. Daytime:

Nighttime:

The rest of the dishes get done, the glass doesn't. The glass belongs in the sink:

I know it's not always the same glass because it shapeshifts from time to time. And because I have tried to make it disappear in a respectable amount of occasions. I wash it, the next day the glass is in the sink again. I put it in the dishwasher, next day glass in the sink. After a bunch of attempts, obviously, I accept the harsh reality and realise the glass is going to sit there forever.

The other detail is, and that's why the note pisses me off so much, that the countertop is permanently covered in breadcrumbs. The rest of the place looks acceptable, but the breadcrumbs are bloody everywhere. This has been like this since the day I arrived and I haven't said anything about it because the general tidiness was alright and I thought it would be sensible not to complain about every single detail that bothered me. So, after a few weeks of seeing the benchtop covered in bread bits one day after another, this little skunk has the guts to come leaving damning notes assuming I am the one to blame for the daily bread apocalypse.

Hence my grabbing the piece of paper and entering the living room to have which will be my fascinating and last conversation ever with her.

Me - Foxxie. Is this supposed to be for me? -I wave the sheet in the air-.

Foxxie - It is for whoever is not cleaning the benchtop.

Me - Aham. Not me.

Foxxie - Alright.

You can build a true friendship with foundations like this deep exchange of ideas.

With every day that goes by Foxxie's behaviour gets worse. Whenever I'm around she slams doors and makes all the noise she is capable of, hitting dishes and smashing drawers as much as she can. The situation gets tense because I feel that ending up hitting each other is getting more and more likely, which would probably not be too good for me since I am very thin and I believe pretty easily beaten up.

The one time I don't see Foxxie spitting fire is one day in which Muggie brings home a new plant. They are so happy, admiring the shiny green leaves.

48 hours after that, as you can imagine, the plant is in vegetable paradise and adding up to the very depressing pots cemetery we have in the kitchen. I seriously hope these girls won't ever want a dog. Or kids.

And like this, surrounded by slammed doors and dead plants I find a room in a neighbourhood nearby, slightly more expensive than Daisy's but a little bigger, in a better house and in a main road.

I don't even say goodbye. Foxxie and Muggie know when I'm gone because they see me emptying my kitchen cupboards, but I don't tell them I'm leaving, nor I, fortunately, see them ever again.

A few weeks after, I meet up with Daisy to have dinner and give her back her keys. She tells me that our two favourite mistresses are making her pay the bills.

The thought of paying them a visit carrying a flamethrower crosses my mind.

Me - WHAT!? So they don't have a third flatmate because they just don't feel like it and yet they are cheeky enough to tell you to pay the bills!?? And why do you pay? That's not even in the contract!!

Let's take a minute to think about this, because just wow: there are expenses that are directly proportional to the number of tenants in a house, like the electricity. In that flat there are only two people consuming electricity, yet Daisy has to pay for the third part of it.

Muggie is bigger than me, but I may be able to break Foxxie's legs.

Daisy - I pay because I just don't have the energy to fight this anymore. For that kind of money it's just not worth it. I told my parents about this on the phone and they told me to pay for the two months I have left and let it go. And I think they are right.

Damn it. They're probably right. It sucks to see your dignity destroyed like this, but sometimes you have to choose between your pride and your mental health.

Me - I hate to say it, but they might actually be right.

Some weeks later I get an email; apparently Foxxie has managed to throw one last tantrum before moving out. Not only was I kicked out and Daisy had to pay a fortune just because, but here the ladies want Daisy to go help them cleaning the flat. This is (partially) Daisy's email:

[...] I was actually going to write to you anyway to let you know the girls finally moved out of the house last weekend woohoo! We received the property report and so far (touch wood!) it looks like it should be ok to get my deposit back...phew! But Foxxie managed to cause one last drama before she moved out of course....she emailed the week before they moved out to tell me I had to go there and help them clean the house!!!! I had steam coming out of my ears when I read that email! I told them I was away that weekend (I wasn't) and asked very nicely if they could just give the room a quick dusting (I knew you had left it in a really good state, so at most it would've needed a light dusting). This is what she wrote back to me:

Just to say, as we did not did not ALL contribute to the final cleaning and leaving the flat (vacating at the end of tenancy) in a presentable way as per the inventory report (and tenancy agreement), which we were required to clean at the end of our tenancy regardless of any circumstance, (we are ALL liable for) two of the three of us clearly attempted to, unfortunately areas of the flat have not been left in a cleanly manner, again, as per the inventory report... so, I guess it will be up to the landlord as to how he/she views the state of the property and may think it requires additional cleaning. 

So many parenthesis, so pompous, for God's sake. Not only is this girl evil, she also has the writing skills of a shrimp.

Anyways, this is what Daisy emailed back:

Considering when you moved in I wasn't happy with the state of your room from the previous tenants that I spent hours and hours scrubbing your room and ensuite from top to bottom to make sure it was in a presentable state when you moved in and considering I cleaned the fridge on a regular basis when I was living in the flat and considering my mum scrubbed the oven when she was over and I didn't use it any time after that (except for the occasional lasagne which didn't make any mess) and considering I looked after all the bills when I was living there and considering I looked after all the property maintenance when I was living there and considering I have contributed payment to the carpets being cleaned and considering I can use CAPITAL LETTERS in a sentence too, then I think cleaning the house on this one occasion and wiping down a few extra surfaces in my room to leave it in a presentable way as per the inventory report should not really be an issue.

Ah! Don't you love it when nice people run out of patience? I certainly do.

Unsurprisingly enough, Foxxie never replied, and honestly I don't blame her. I kind of picture Daisy typing the email with a rifle on the table.

And well, that's it. I moved to a better flat, Daisy got her deposit back and we even keep in touch. I don't think Foxxie and Muggie are living under a bridge, but hey, you can't have it all in life, right?

Foxxie III

Third and almost last chapter of my adventures in my lovely third London house. First part here and second part here.

I get back from my holiday and I meet up with Daisy the following day. She is waiting for me on a tiny Japanese restaurant by Earls Court station. I order something similar to spring rolls and we start discussing our situation.

Me – Look, just for the two months we have left I think it's just better if I am not in the contract. I don't think you are trying to scam me any more, and you have seen already that I didn't run away with your money, so if that's OK with you, I pay you and you pay the agency, just like we have been doing.

EXPLANATION

The filthy little bastards from the agency were not only going to charge me 120 pounds for putting me on the contract, but were also going make Daisy pay a more than 400 pounds fee for the tenant change. You may be thinking that this is because the situation is giving them some kind of work. It's not. Daisy is the one showing the flat to potential tenants, it's her doing all the management work. I haven't even met the agents. I truly wouldn't mind much if these people suffered some tragic accident.

Furthermore, this sudden change of heart from the landlady, if it leads to my immediate leaving, will force Daisy to pay double rent for two months, because she is already installed in another flat. That is, for the European people out there, more than two thousand euros a month in rent. A lot of people just can't afford that kind of money.

END OF EXPLANATION

Daisy seems to be super relieved.

Daisy – You would be doing me the biggest favour ever, because obviously I'm not going to find anybody to rent the room to just for these two months, so if you don't stay I would be paying for that rent. Also, the landlady is perfectly fine with you staying instead of me. Everything should be fine.

Me – The only problem is that I can't wait until the end of the two months to start looking for a new place; I can't risk it. So I'll probably pay you just one month, I doubt I'll be able to stay longer than that.

Daisy – No worries, you just pay for the days you stay. I'm so sorry you are in this situation, with all the bad experiences you've already had with the other flats. I was hoping this would be the good one for you.

This girl might actually sell kidneys in the black market after all, what do I know, but she genuinely looks like a good person. We drop the subject, I tell her about my holiday in San Sebastian and she tells me about London film festival. We decide we have to go to the cinema or for coffee one of these days.

Daisy - The girls want to talk to you when you get home, I guess to see how you guys are going to deal with all this.

Me – Yeah, well, I'll tell them about what we have decided. I don't really know what they can say about it, it's not like I have a choice here. I have to be out of there in two months, just like them.

This is one of those moments in which you think things can't get any worse, but then you realize it's me we are talking about, so you decide to wait and see what happens.

I get home and hear Foxxie and Muggie talking on the couch.

I stick my head in the door while taking my coat off.

Me – What a mess. I take this off and then we can talk -I disappear in the corridor to drop my stuff in my room and go back to the living room-. Daisy has told me you know about the whole situation -I sit on a chair-. We've been talking and... -I tell them about the conversation. That I'm going to keep paying through her- …the problem is that I can't stay for two months, I have to start looking soon. I'd like to stay so she doesn't have to pay extra, but I just can't afford waiting for too long and then not finding a place in time. This situation sucks.

Foxxie and Muggie have listened to my monologue in silence. None of the things I've just said matter in the slightest; what Foxxie says now are studied words that they have planned to say before I got home.

Foxxie – Well, you not being in the contract was OK at the beginning because it was a temporary situation, but I am no longer comfortable with you staying here if your name is not on the papers.

Uhm?

Me – What? You want me to move like.. now?

Foxxie – Well, not now, now. But as soon as possible.

I guess we now know who the owner of the mug is.

Foxxie – Is this just my opinion? I don't know if I'm the only one thinking this -she looks at Muggie. Please. Like they haven't rehearsed all this already-.

Muggie – Yes, sure, I am not comfortable either... the sooner you start looking, the better. It's just the best for everyone.

The best for everyone!!??

No, you whore. It's the best for you and your brat friend; you are kicking me out of the house with my energy almost exhausted and you are putting one of your friends in a serious financial situation. Sluts.

With the shock of having these two little prostitutes kicking me out for absolutely no reason, I tell them that if they want to say anything related to all this mess they know where to find me and I go to my room. This is not only amazing because they are asking me to leave without any kind of valid reason in spite of them perfectly knowing about my history and about me being about to run out of patience regarding London housing. Nor because Daisy is about to pay double rent for two months in a city whose renting numbers can easily take away 40% of your salary. This is deplorable because these two witches claim to be Daisy's friends. Them being two slappable bitches with me is bad enough, but getting a friend in serious economic trouble is simply unbelievable.

And don't think that we had some kind of problem while living together. I don't even think they were at all uncomfortable with the you're-not-in-the-contract issue. I believe they just felt like living on their own and knew Daisy would pay because she was tied to a contract. And not only this, they didn't even tell her what they were about to do.

I close my door with a pretty consistent trauma and thinking whether I shouldn't start considering taking a plane and going back to Spain, or at least to some other city that is not so freaking ungrateful. There are some things I thought I would never experience in my life and one of them is being kicked out of my house. I can't say London is not providing me with surprising new experiences.

I grab my phone. I have the depressing duty of telling Daisy that she will have to pay a lot of money in the upcoming months and that her friends are probably not their friends at all. I open whatsapp.

Me – Daisy, hi. I'm so very sorry but I have to move out as soon as possible, the girls don't want me to stay.

Daisy – WTF?????????? I'm shopping, give me five minutes and I'll call you.

Me – WTF, yes, that is the definition.

Daisy – They can't do that. It's my room and you are my guest and the landlady is OK with you staying there. You can stay as long as you want.

Well, this is technically correct. These girls don't really have any right to decide whether I can stay or not; the thing here is that living with two people who want you out of there is extremely unpleasant and, what is more important, the doors don't have a lock. They could get in my room while I'm at work and throw all my stuff out the window, and I would be powerless about it.

I realise it doesn't really make sense to be shocked. From the beginning they were behaving like the flat was theirs and like it was them and not Daisy choosing who would stay and who wouldn't. That first day having coffee with them it was clear that the one making the decisions there was Foxxie, Muggie was going to be OK with whatever she said and apparently Daisy didn't count because she was no longer going to live there. Also, I must say that I thought that Foxxie was a bitch from minute one, but about Muggie I just thought she was thick as a brick, not a bad person. She fooled me well.

Five minutes pass and Daisy calls me, half angry, half shocked, and tells me again that I can stay as long as I want, that these two don't have any saying about it.

Daisy – I just can't believe this!! I'm just baffled!! I should put a homeless man in there. It's my room and I can bring whoever I want; I should tell a homeless man to come stay for free for two months. Even if he destroys the house and I lose my deposit it would be worth it.

For a second there I have the impression that if I encourage her a little she will actually go to a crack house to make some new friends. Anyway, I explain why me staying there more than the absolute necessary is not a good idea and we promise to keep each other posted.

In the background, I hear Foxxie and Muggie guffawing at whatever they are watching on TV. This is why I like living in a country in which it's not usual to have guns at home.


I'll tell you the end of this on the next and last post. I still have some hatred left.

Foxxie II

You can read Foxxie I here. Now let me tell you the second part of this story:

Before moving in I have to go to the flat, because Foxxie and Muggie are nervous about having a new housemate and they want to know me a little. I have coffee with the three of them and that's when I learn that Foxxie works in human resources and that she is one of those professional, independent women that have a glass of wine in the living room while still wearing their jewellery. The rejection this girl makes me feel and the sensation that she is an entitled bitch are something instantaneous, but she is actually nice, so I think that all this might be just unjustified prejudging.

After convincing my soon-to-be flatmates that I am not a psychopath, I grab all my things and move into the ridiculously small room that used to be Daisy's. The place has carpeted floors, which I find extremely disgusting, but apart from that the house is pretty great.

It's interesting to see how people live. You get to know a lot about them. About Foxxie and Muggie I learn that they like to eat healthy:

And that they are plant lovers:

The first days Muggie is not around, so I only get to talk to Foxxie, who is absurdly kind to me. I never get any actual answers because every factor in the universe can be bent to my will.

Me – Do you guys share the milk?

Foxxie – We can share if you want.

…

Me – Ehm.. better not; I drink a lot of milk -this is from before I knew UK milk sucks-, so you would be running out all the time because of me.

Foxxie – Then we don't share, not a problem.

OK. Cool. Purely based on prejudgements and intuition I deeply dislike this girl, but it looks like she is really making an effort. Maybe I'm wrong and she is a good person.

We even have one or two decent conversations in the sofa or in the kitchen. I don't really see the relationship flowing much, but well, the girl is nice.

And then Muggie arrives.

Muggie asks me how I'm settling in, she gives me sightseeing tips and in general she is super nice. She has what must be the most annoying voice pitch in the entire world, she repeats a pet word in every single sentence she pronounces -YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH- and she looks like she has approximately three and a half brain cells, but she is really really nice.

But!

I start to see the real Foxxie!

As soon as Muggie is an active part of the flat, Foxxie starts to openly ignore me. The feeling I get is that she talked to me before because there was no one else and she was bored, so as soon as someone else has arrived she has just forgotten about my existence. Muggie is kind, but when they are together they don't pay the slightest attention to me.

I start to feel extraordinarily out of place. It's uncomfortable for me to be in the living room because I am evidently interrupting my flatmates' long sessions of hysterically laughing with the adventures of Carry Bradshaw and her glamorous and sexually active friends.

It's not that the idea makes me angry; they are friends and don't know me at all; it makes sense. But it's still annoying to live with two people who want to be on their own all the time and who think your place is anywhere but with them. Moreover, it doesn't look like they are trying too hard to include me.

Anyway, September arrives and I go to San Sebastian for ten days. While being there, Daisy contacts me.

The landlady has decided she won't be renting the flat any more. That when the two months that are left in the contract are over, the girls and I have to get out.

Well, screw you too, landlady.

As it turns out, the law forces landlords to give six months in the house to the people who just signed a contract for their property. That means that if they put me in the contract now, in two months, when it's time for me to leave, I can chain myself to a radiator and just refuse to leave altogether. So the landlady says that she is not willing to risk it, that she won't put me in the contract at all, not even for those two months. And, in any case, in two months tops I will be needing a new place to live.

How, for God's sake, is it possible that I am so bloody unlucky with London housing? It is seriously something to think about already.

Third and second-to-last chapter of this mess next week. Be happy.

Foxxie I

A few months ago I went for dinner with some colleagues. There was like fifteen of us, but I was in a conversation with Pirelli, who was talking at the top of his lungs because we were at a pub and it was impossible to hear anything.

Pirelli grabs a fry and continues yelling above the music about how on Earth I can be so unlucky regarding the housing subject and in general about the bitter world of flatsharing.

Pirelli – I have a flatmate who won't stop eating my bananas. And it gets on my nerves. The other day I was so pissed that I got into the whatsapp group I have with my seven housemates and wrote “Who ate my fucking bananas??!! Again!!!” and they all started replying: “not me. Me neither. Wasn't me either”. And in the end, who's left? The Italians. The Italian fucking couple, who eat all my food. I know it's a cliche, but shit, every time someone goes around stealing food, it's the fucking Italians!

Two things I have to say here. First one is that this looks like a monologue because I'm laughing so hard I can't even say anything; second one is that this man, in spite of his South Korean genetics, is from Milan.

Pirelli – And look, if these guys one day grab something because they need it, it's OK. If this dude is lacking potasium so hard that he's gonna have a stroke, I can give him the fucking banana. But it's not like that, they are always eating my food. And it gets on my fucking nerves.

In this conversation, oh how naive I am, I tell Pirelli that I haven't actually had any problems with the people I have lived with. That it is one of the few things that have not been an utter disaster.

Well, I'm going to introduce you to my new set of flatmates.

First of all, let me show you the stuff they have around the house.

The first thing is this mug:

That reads:

SLUT'S MUG

Even while I'm drinking this, I'm thinking about cock

The second thing is this inflatable doll that they keep in the living room, behind a closet:

Her name is Foxxie and they stole it from a club at a hen party. The name comes from the fact that Jamie Foxx was the DJ that night. London things, I guess.

To this gorgeous collection we can add fridge magnets featuring chicks in a thong:

And prostitutes:

About the owners of all this stuff I am going to talk about.

Don't get me wrong, all these things wouldn't have any kind of relevance if we were talking about someone else. It's just that I find the self-referencing poetry of these two sluts having all this material related to their profession hilarious.

Oh, sorry. Spoilers.

So it's easier to remember their names, let's name these girls Foxxie, like the doll, and... uhm... Muggie.

Let's start from the beginning.

After staying in a couple of hotels, a house that I had to run away from because it was infested with rats and cockroaches, some friends' house and another house managed by some kind of mafia (my life in London has not been easy so far), I end up in a seventh floor, five minutes away from the tube station, in a wonderful area and in which I will only have to share with two girls. Australians, with a job and apparently pretty nice.

The contract is for three months and the landlady is planning on extending it for another year when those three months pass. For me this is ideal, because after being trapped by a six-month contract in a studio full of rats, what I need is a place I can flee if anything goes wrong. And if everything is fine I can still stay for another year, so it's perfect.

I tell Daisy, who is showing me around, that I'll take it. She is the current tenant and wants to go live with a friend, so if I take the room I would replace her in the contract and she would be free to fly away to her new lovely house; therefore if I take it I'll be doing her a huge favour. She gets happy as a clam.

Daisy – Just like that? You just take it, right now?

Me – Yes; I don't have any more flats to see today and the others I saw were the worst. I take this one.

We get into the lift talking about how we are going to arrange everything.

Daisy – You have to pay the agents 120 pounds for them to investigate you and see if you can actually stay.

Yes. You pay the agents so they can decide if they let you stay. London and its state agencies.

Daisy – It should be fine, though, as long as you have a job... with Foxxie's friend there were problems because she was on probation at work, and these people won't allow you in if you are not in a stable situation at work. Your are not on probation, right?

God damnit.

Me – Crap. I am. It will be over in three weeks, but right now I am indeed on probation -Daisy looks suddenly very worried-.

Daisy – Damn. Well, if it's almost over it might be fine. Let me talk to the agent and let's see what can be done about it. I guess it will be OK.

But, dear readers, this is London. And if there is something that can go well, an agent will show up to fix that.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Me – Hey Daisy.

Daisy – Hi! I talked to the agent. He says you could move in while still having everything on my name. You would pay me and I would pay him.

Of course! Let's never do anything the legal way! This is London, after all.

Me – But... this is kind of messy... how do you know I'm even going to pay? You just met me.

Daisy – I'm so glad you said that, because it worries me a lot, actually -she giggles nervously-.

Me – And I wouldn't be in the contract, which is not thrilling at all.

Daisy – I know. I don't know what we should do.

We discuss the situation. After a rather long conversation I am quite sure Daisy sells human organs in the black market and she seems to think that I have a second job as a nuclear weapons dealer. We both think the other is a con artist, so we agree for me to pay her a small amount, she gives me the keys, I check I can actually get into the flat and only then I pay for the rest of the month. That way I don't have to pay a fortune without having the keys and she doesn't have to give me the keys without any kind of guarantee.

And I will keep telling you stuff next week. The whole thing is just too long for one single post.

See you next week!

Joy: Shiny floors, shiny film

With my expectations in floor minus 25 after knowing that the film I was going to watch was about the invention of something called "miracle mop", a few days ago I got into a movie theatre in Piccadilly Circus ready to watch Joy (David O. Russell, 2015).

Just to give you a little more context, Joy is the story of the inventor Joy Mangano (Jennifer Lawrence), who managed to set up a commercial empire in spite of having to take care of ex-husbands, parents, children and in general being a single mom in the USA of the 70s.

The mop thing might not sound very engaging, but we also have Robert De Niro, Virgina Madsen and Elisabeth Röhm portraying the insufferable family of Joy, Dascha Polanco as her best friend, Édgar Ramírez playing the immature husband role and Isabella Rossellini and Bradley Cooper in roles that I won't explain in case that is too much information; so even ignoring Jeniffer Lawrence -who is on her own a reason to get into a movie theatre-, the performances and characters are pretty amazing. In particular Ramírez and Rossellini are really funny, and the whole film makes you smile often and even laugh out loud every now and then, especially during the first part.

Setting aside that the story is cheerful and entertaining most of the time, -the situation is stressful and quite dramatic, but it is shown from a fun and witty point of view-, the quest this woman had to go through for the world to accept that her ideas were actually smart and so to be able to escape her miserable and indebted life is, indeed, worth making a movie about; because here Mrs. Mangano had to put up with so many thieves, con artists and people trying to convince her that her ideas were worthless, that it is kind of difficult not to worship her a little after knowing about her life. Actually, the real Joy Mangano is still there, loaded and selling this furry things called "huggable hangers".

If we ignore the excessive amount of songs used in the soundtrack and certain scenes slightly overacted, Joy is an almost impeccable drama that provides with good characters, good performances, a great story to tell and that I have found, in general, very recommendable. If I used one of those rating systems I would give it a ton of stars.

Remember, though, that the original mop was invented by this guy from Logroño. The more you know.

Hi there

Oh hey. Hi there.

This is weird. I don't know how to present myself.

Ok, so. I am Key. I was born and raised in Spain, but I recently decided to move to London, and now I'm kind of trapped here until I decide what to do next with my life.

No, I'm not a hippie who lives under the bridge playing the guitar for money. I would; I just don't have any musical talent. I work as a software developer, pay a ridiculously high rent and pack my lunch. Super adult stuff.

The thing is that I have been writing mostly dumb posts and film reviews in my blog for more than six years now, and I have decided to translate some of them into English. If you see that I am utterly destroying the language, that will mean I couldn't fool any native speaker into checking the post before publishing it. You can correct me in the comments in a nice way. If you are mean I will cry or try to beat you up, depending on the day I'm having.

Welcome to my blog :)