It's Not What You Think

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At college I struck up a friendship with a fellow eccentric. One afternoon we skipped classes and went on long, long rambling walk - with lots of philosophical chatter and the promise of a cup of tea at the end.

After about two hours, the last twenty minutes on a winding maze of side streets, we came to a block of flats. We went in through the gate, walked to a door...and stood for ten seconds staring wordlessly at each other.

Eventually he said, "What's the matter? Have you forgotten your key?"

I blinked. "What? Why should I have a key?"

"This is where you live isn't it?"

"Um, no. I thought it was where you lived."

"So...why did you come here?"

"I was following you."

"But I was following you."

"Oh. Where are we?"

"I don't know."

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A year ago I knew someone in the same line of work as myself - ESL/EFL teacher. Like most TEFLers, he into travel, cheap living, red wine and cannabis resin. Laid back, bohemian, and not terribly knowledgeable about his subject.

And also, like a lot of TEFLers, a bit vague on which countries he'd taught in at what time, and completely unreliable in getting me information he'd promised on golden job opportunities.

He went away suddenly, having found a last minute vacancy - as often happens - in Barcelona. After less than a month he phoned a mutual friend in a panic, saying he'd been mugged in the street and all his money taken - and he didn't like to ask, but could our friend lend a hundred pounds into his bank account, which he'd pay back in a week when he got paid. This our friend did.

After two weeks, there was no sign of repayment and no contact. And he wasn't answering his phone - though that wasn't exactly unusual.

Then another mutual acquaintance spilled the beans. He hadn't been mugged, hadn't lost his money, probably wasn't even in Barcelona...but was rather into harder drugs, enough to tell lies to get the money for them.

Losing a dozen friends for a hit or two obviously didn't bother him. At least, not as much as missing the hits would have.

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I slightly knew a lady who worked as a freelance cleaner. I also knew a man whose house was a mess - which he was vainly trying to clear, some time after the death of his wife.

So I suggested that he give the lady a wad of cash to do the work, because he had money but no time, and she was short of work. He thought it was an excellent idea, and soon all the rubbish was thrown away and all the books and papers were in neat piles.

Today I discovered something. When she said she was a freelance cleaner, she'd actually said 'carer' and I'd obviously been wearing my cloth ears that day. She says she utterly, utterly despises housework, and only did it out of sympathy because the mess was obviously the result of grief over his wife.

Except I'd known the couple for several years...and the house had always been a tip.

Oops.

Um. Sorry.

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