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Missing flatmates

So my friend, in whose flat I’m currently living, was supposed to be back from Costa Rica a few days ago. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, though.

It reminds me of the first time I lived in London, many years ago. I was sharing a flat in Shepherds Bush with some random geezer. A nice enough guy, but not too bright. Anyway, when he got made redundant from his job I persuaded him that it would be a great opportunity to go travelling for a bit. It was just getting towards summer, he’d been paid off with a few months salary and there’d be plenty of phone bashing sales jobs waiting for him when he got back. The greek islands was my suggestion and off he went a few days later. He said he’d be back in a month. Three months later I was still living in the flat by myself wondering where the hell he might have got to. He finally turned up in the autumn. Turns out he’d got stabbed in a fight in his first week, spent a couple of months in hospital, then gone back to his parents’ place for a while to recuperate. He wasn’t too pleased that I’d nicked the nice double room in his absence either. I moved out soon after that.

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