© 2019 by pickledtillyour92

  • pickledtillyour92

Ernest the Polish Boxer

Updated: Sep 23, 2018

As you know the bottom fell out of life this year, everything I had built up in Paris over the past 4-years came crashing down. After 6 months with the Rabbi and my mother, under the threat of their marriage ending due to my existence, I decided to take a shared flat in West Hampstead for two months this summer.

The flat cost me a whopping £1150 a month plus bills plus I am responsible for bins and watering the flowers. I still haven't met my flatmates, the kitchen smells, and I am staying in a sweet couple's bed whilst they gallivant around the world on my rent. I got a text 2 days ago from the owner (before he leaves for his travels) saying he would be at the office today (he is a composer and has a grand piano in the apartment). So it seems I am paying this hefty chunk of rent just for the night shift, whilst my creditor uses the place for the day shift to work. Doesn't seem fair somehow, I may have failed to mention to him that I also work from home, which seems no longer to be an option.

During the last 6 months, I have not bought one item of clothing for myself, been to the supermarket for anything other than wine, cooked for myself or even made a sandwich, done my own laundry or changed my own sheets. I am not about to start now, so I still eat two meals a day at the tennis club.

I have recently taken up boxing to try and vent some of my emotions, after a few minutes on gumtree I found a Polish boxer called Ernest. After our first session I was in such pain I had to slide down 3 flights of stairs every morning on my bottom. The second session was today. Behind the flat is a meadow, tucked away and normally deserted but today there was a photo shoot and lots of commotion. Ernest and I carried on boxing, grunting, spitting at each other and I threw in a couple of my usual princess strops, whilst the PR girls, hair and makeup artists bobbed around us. I found out later it was Kirsten Scott Thomas being shot for Harper's.

The Rabbi and my mum are currently on holiday in Alaska for 3 weeks, it feels good to be paying over 1k in rent for a place when I could be house sitting and paying nothing. They are due back in a few days and the Rabbi will be looking forward to having his big empty house all for himself and my mother. One spanner, my brother whom we call League (as in pub league) and who lives in chaos in Lagos, Nigeria, just landed at Heathrow and has taken up residence at the Rabbi's house, unknown to him.

I am the perfect house guest compared to League who has a habit of inviting Somalians (he did a Masters in African Politics) he meets in the streets of Camden back to the house at 2 or 3 in the morning to play African music loudly and chew khat to get high and polish off any of the Rabbi's cognac he naively leaves lying around. In the past, my mother used to join the parties and tell the Rabbi he was an old man and no fun, as he complained the noise was keeping him up and dared question who these strangers were in his house. The Rabbi, the owner of the house and serious commuter workerbee, was told to pipe down.