On the day of last year’s Halfway Hall, warfare began. In the house I live in now, a fight broke out. At the beginning of this Michaelmas, five third years remained.
Yes. I am intentionally speaking in a dramatic tone. Now, it is time for our own Halfway Hall. The morning starts with E&M-Mate moping into my room. “Someone’s taken my Mature Cheddar.” I enter the kitchen to aid him in his grumpy quest. But it seems E&M-Mate’s cheese is not the only thievery. My mozzarella is missing. Is-He-My-Mate-3rd-Year is missing two wraps. Boxer-M8 is missing two eggs.
Screams echo about the house. Posts in our Facebook group ensue. A scream comes from Ditz. The toilet is yellow-puddled. “WHY WON’T THEY LEARN TO STOP PISSING ON THE TOILET SEAT?” My mouth opens and shuts. Her door slams, and a minute later a Facebook notification pops up on my phone. She has posted. The third years’ heads rear with anticipation for their response. Mock-retorts follow. My phone ding-ding-dings.
“WHY WON’T YOU STOP LEAVING HAIR IN THE SHOWER?” “STOP LEAVING YOUR DOORS OPEN!”
Cyber passive aggression reverberates about my head. Banter or no banter, by the evening I am glad to get out of the house. As wine trickles from bottles, the weight of the day falls. I ignore the knowledge that I have a term and a half left to gaze fondly at the linguist opposite me. I ignore that I am yet to succeed at existing.
As we glide from drinks to Wahoo, all feels harmonious. Even Wahoo itself. A curse on our house? Pish. The night ends as our ears truly begin to hear the attempts at mixing music. But instead we stumble upon a warfront. An open suitcase which lay lonely on the street earlier is now barricading my bedroom door. Clingfilm covers the toilet. Ditz-Friend decides to have a shower to wash off Wahoo vibes.
As the shower stops, I hear the steady stomp of her feet, and she opens my door. “Come see this.” I follow her into the bathroom. On the shower wall is scribed ‘F U’, in hair. I laugh, and tell her to take it down. “But it took me ages to get the hair out of my hairbrush!” “Take it down. We can’t antagonise.”
The next day, as I pick up my razor, I see something jammed in to the blades. Looking closer, I see that it is cling film. I put the razor down slowly, close my eyes, and quietly sigh.
