Tristram Saunders: There’s a ghost in my house

“It’s awful.” Sven nods, sympathetically. “It’s terrible,” I continue, “I’m living in a horror film.”

For half an hour, I have been bemoaning my flatmate-situation to anyone who will listen. Sven is the last of the tolerant; the rest of our friends have made their excuses and headed home. At this moment, leaving the pub is the last thing I want to do. “I know what it’ll be like when I get back. The lights will all be off, and there’ll be that smell from the lavender air freshener she uses. Lavender!” I pause, hoping for another sympathetic nod. This time, Sven just stares blankly.

Since arriving in St Andrews two months ago, I have been ‘sharing’ a two-bedroom flat with Katarina. We have met, by my rough estimation, exactly twice. We do not exist in the same time-zone. At 5.45 each morning, she bounds out of bed, greets the coming dawn with a brisk, efficient smile, and begins her morning yoga. At 9PM, tired-out from a fun and productive day, she slips under the covers with a good book (Wittgenstein), before gently drifting into the arms of sleep.

My routine is a little different. The standard dear-God-am-I-still-alive wakeup howl (13.00), then Facebook, brunch, smoke, writing workshop,* smoke, pub, dinner (01.30), procrastination, bed (04.00).

Since we rarely meet, Katarina and I communicate by a system of notes. Her Monday-morning Post-It (‘Please remember to take the bins out! K x’) is inevitably followed by my Monday-evening reply:

‘Y did u take them out?? I said I was doing it, I would have got round 2 it if yd waitd, its only just gone midnite, they dont collect the bins until morning and I SAID that I wasnt going to forget this time. Y dont u trust me??? T.’

Alas, my polite missives are seldom heeded. So dizzying is Katarina’s efficiency that, even when I try to pull my weight around the house, I am left trailing in her wake. It’s like a humming-bird trying to negotiate with an Ent.

After weeks of this, I have begun to feel distinctly peeved. As I explain to Sven (back in the pub), it’s not unlike being haunted. Whenever I come home, the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. Everything is almost as it was, and yet, in a thousand tiny ways, the poltergeist has left her mark. Dirt has vanished from the carpet. My empty pizza-box is missing. All our throw-cushions have moved, and are now exactly 45° to the sofa. Looking around my altered living-room with a shudder, I search the walls for ectoplasm. According to Katarina’s copy of Freud’s essays, it’s a textbook case of the uncanny: it looks close to normality, but not quite close enough.

Having recounted this living nightmare to Sven, he thinks before replying. “Let me get this straight: she is friendly, reliable, and goes to bed early. You stay out late drinking, fry food loudly at 1AM, leaving her to clean up the mess – which she does, with neither complaint nor hesitation. You are annoyed about her because…?”

I bid Sven a curt goodnight, and stumble home to cook my dinner.

—

Since writing this column, I have learned (through a real, face-to-face conversation) that Katarina will be heading home a little earlier than I expected. I’ll be living alone all through December. Don’t tell her this, but I’m going to miss her notes.

* I write poems. That is my full-time degree. This makes the obligatory ‘there’s so much work!’ conversation with my fellow post-grads a tad awkward.