Article for G3 Magazine.
You’ve just stumbled back home from the pub. You fish for your keys and try to guide them soundlessly into the lock. Tiptoeing down the hallway you are relieved to find no light from under your flatmate’s door. Still, you potter around the kitchen in complete darkness- lest you wake ‘er upstairs- and prepare for a satisfying feed, but uh-oh you’ll have to borrow some butter again. With scientific precision you match the existing knife scrapings then replace the tub to its exact co-ordinates on the shelf. Satisfied she’ll never notice you ease the door shut. That’s when you see it through the gloom: another passive aggressive note. It begins “to whoever has been using my butter…” and ends with more contempt than you had for your parents aged 16. Sh*t.