An open letter to the gyp thief
Joey doesn’t share food
Sure sure 'all property is theft' – but sometimes theft is actual theft.
And since we're unfortunately not living in a Communist Nirvana, private property is kinda a thing. Ergo, the snakes that pinch your food from the gyp are basically the anti-christ.
So. Dear Gyp-Thief,
I won’t bother trying to appeal to your moral code, as it appears that your soul is just an empty cavern… like our fridge, thanks to your demonic ways :'(
Instead, I will try and appeal to your sense of reason.
Life as a student at the University of Cambridge is hard enough, what with the relentless deadlines, gruelling supervisions and lack of decent night-life to blow off steam. The last thing that us tired pups need is our only source of unadulterated joy being tampered with. In this world of pure grievance, all that us mortals can rely on is a decent supper.
And you, you rotten gyp-thief, are truly the scum of the earth, the worst kind of person.
Picture this scene: the student loan has finally rolled into your account and you decide to treat yourself to not only a Mainsbury’s spree but also, in an unheard of act of utter bougieness, a venture down to the M&S Food Court for some serious debauchery.
After pocketing a handful of Mac & Cheese microwave meals, your quest is complete, and you tuck your newfound riches into that sacred communal treasure chest otherwise known as the fridge.
Your mouth salivates just at the thought of this delightful nouvelle cuisine; mid footnote check, you decide that dinner time can be whatever time you feel.
You mosey on down to your gyp, and are met by an absolute travesty. Shock! Horror! Quelle Merde!
Your section of the fridge has been ransacked!
Your neighbours, cooking quietly in the kitchen, meet you with sympathetic and commiseratory nods.
“Sorry for your loss,” your comrade murmurs to you, as you collapse onto the floor, and throw your hands up to the heavens in despair.
And like the true Nancy Drew that you are, a full investigation is conducted. Forget the Porters, and the Dean.
You summon the floor group-chat.
Starting off somewhat passive aggressively, you eventually launch into a full on tirade against the enemy of man: the Gyp Thief.
You solemnly remind your neighbours that although they might feel safe now the move from stealing Mac & Cheese to bagels is a slippery slope. The severity of the situation begins to dawn on you all: Your hummus may be in grave danger.
People, we have to cut this proverbial and literal snake off at the head, and deal with this issue before it becomes malignant.
Who are the suspects?
(Suspect A) The drunk who brings back their ‘friends’ after a wild night out on the razz. They usher their rowdy pals to your block and begin to saunter on down to the kitchen. As you lie awake at 12:03 AM, roused by the worrying sounds of "anyone peckish?" you agonise over which precious foodstuff will be the collateral damage in this nightmare. Will it be your last banana? Your leftover pasta? As you hear them gauging away, you realise these bestial creatures are taking no prisoners: this suspect is bold and unapologetic.
You charge down to their bedroom and try to prosecute them, but, sadly, they are a nocturnal creature. Outside their door is a bin filled with empty bottles and a note to the Bedder, informing them of a 'spontaneous virus'. Your schedules will (conveniently?) never sync up long enough for you to confront this potential suspect.
Or could it be (Suspect B), the lonely baker.
You slowly start noticing items like butter and flour going missing. And then next thing you know, you’re being offered cookies. Sounds fishy to moi!
Stealing your items, and handing them back to you, in baked form, is still stealing! But thank you for the cookie, Sofie!
Or could it really be (Suspect C), the quiet and stealthy one.
This one clearly abides by the formula ‘keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’. They are the ones that share in your pain and grief on the group chat, they ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over these criminal acts. Sometimes they even lodge a complaint themselves. But their side of the fridge always seems eerily full.
Whoever you are, gyp-thief, I will tell you that I have a particular set of skills, skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. Here is my ultimatum. Take it or leave it:
If you let my microwave meals go, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you and I will **kill you!!**/passive-aggressively politely ask for my food back.
So, we're hosting an amnesty for all you filthy gyp-thiefs. It will be in Hell, Devil’s Alley, in the land of Purgatory.
A Hangry neighbour